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THE  REVELLERS 


By  LOUIS  TRACY 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  KANSAS 

THE  WHEEL  O'  FORTUNE 

A  SON  OF  THE  IMMORTALS 

CYNTHIA'S  CHAUFFEUR 

THE  MESSAGE 

THE  STOWAWAY 

THE  PILLAR  OF  LIGHT 

THE  SILENT  BARRIER 

THE  "MIND  THE  PAINT"  GIRL 

ONE  WONDERFUL  NIGHT 

THE  TERMS  OF  SURRENDER 

FLOWER  OF  THE  GORSE 

THE  RED  YEAR 

THE  GREAT  MOGUL 

MIRABEL'S  ISLAND 

THE  DAY  OF  WRATH 

HIS  UNKNOWN  WIFE 

THE  POSTMASTER'S  DAUGHTER 

THE  REVELLERS 


THE 
REVELLERS 


BY 

LOUIS  TRACY 

AUTHOR  OP 

1  THE  WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING," 

1  THE  POSTMASTER'S  DAUGHTER,' 

ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
EDWARD  J.  CLODE 


COPYKIBHT,   1917,  BY 

EDWARD    J.    CLODE 
All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AME1UCA 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


I.  QUESTIONINGS      .....      .  1 

II.  STRANGERS,  INDEED  ......  13 

III.  THE  SEEDS  OF  MISCHIEF     ....  27 

IV.  THE  FEAST   ........  40 

V.  "  IT  Is  THE  FIRST  STEP  THAT  COUNTS  "  55 

VI.  WHEREIN  THE  RED  BLOOD  FLOWS  .      .  71 

VII.  GEORGE  PICKERING  PLAYS  THE  MAN  .  88 

VIII.  SHOWING     How     MARTIN'S     HORIZON 

WIDENS      .      .......  100 

IX.  THE  WILDCAT    .      .      .      .      .,     .      .  115 

X.  DEEPENING  SHADOWS     .....  128 

XI.  FOR  ONE,  THE  NIGHT;  FOR  ANOTHER, 

THE  DAWN      .......  140 

XII.  A  FRIENDLY  ARGUMENT     .;     .      .      .  153 

XIII.  A  DYING  DEPOSITION                  .     >:     .  172 

XIV.  THE  STORM  .....      ...  190 

XV.  THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  .....  206 

XVI.  UNDERCURRENTS  .....     >      .  225 

XVII.  Two  MOORLAND  EPISODES  ....  243 

XVIII.  THE  SEVEN  FULL  YEARS     .      .      .      .272 

XIX.  OUT  OF  THE  MISTS  ......  292 

XX.  THE  RIGOR  OF  THE  GAME  .      .      .      .  307 

XXI.  NEARING  THE  END  .                        .;    >  323 


2138478 


CHAPTER  I 
QUESTIONINGS 

<  <  A  ND  the  king   was  much  moved,  and  went  up  to 

/-%    the  chamber  over  the  gate,  and  wept :  and  as  he 

went,  thus  he  said,  O  my  son  Absalom,  my  son, 

my  son  Absalom!    Would  God  I  had  died  for  thee,  O 

Absalom,  my  son,  my  son !  " 

The  voice  of  the  reader  was  strident,  his  utterance 
uneven,  his  diction  illiterate.  Yet  he  concluded  the 
18th  chapter  of  the  second  Book  of  Samuel  with  an 
unctuous  force  born  of  long  familiarity  with  the  text. 
His  laborious  drone  revealed  no  consciousness  of  the 
humanism  of  the  Jewish  King.  To  suggest  that  the 
Bible  contained  a  mine  of  literature,  a  series  of  stories 
of  surpassing  interest,  portraying  as  truthfully  the 
lives  of  the  men  and  women  of  to-day  as  of  the  nomad 
race  which  a  personal  God  led  through  the  wilderness, 
would  have  provoked  from  this  man's  mouth  a  sluggish 
flood  of  protest.  The  slow-moving  lips,  set  tight  after 
each  syllabic  struggle,  the  shaggy  eyebrows  overhanging 
horn-rimmed  spectacles,  the  beetling  forehead  and  bull- 
like  head  sunk  between  massive  shoulders,  the  very  clutch 
of  the  big  hands  on  the  Bible  held  stiffly  at  a  distance, 
bespoke  a  triumphant  dogmatism  that  found  as  little 
actuality  in  the  heartbroken  cry  of  David  as  in  a  de- 
scription of  a  seven-branched  candlestick. 

The  boy  who  listened  wondered  why  people  should 

1 


"  think  such  a  lot  about  "  high  priests  and  kings  who 
died  so  long  ago.  David  was  interesting  enough  as  a 
youth.  The  slaying  of  Goliath,  the  charming  of  Saul 
with  sweet  music  on  a  harp,  appealed  to  the  vivid,  if 
unformed,  imagination  of  fourteen.  But  the  temptation 
of  the  man,  the  splendid  efforts  of  the  monarch  to  rule 
a  peevish  people — these  were  lost  on  him.  Worse,  they 
wearied  him,  because,  as  it  happened,  he  had  a  reasoning 
brain. 

He  refused  to  credit  all  that  he  heard.  It  was  hard 
to  believe  that  any  man's  hair  could  catch  in  an  oak  so 
that  he  should  be  lifted  up  between  heaven  and  earth, 
merely  because  he  rode  beneath  the  tree  on  the  back  of 
a  mule.  This  sounded  like  the  language  of  exaggera- 
tion, and  sturdy  little  Martin  Court  Holland  hated 
exaggeration. 

Again,  he  took  the  winged  words  literally,  and  the 
ease  with  which  David  saw,  heard,  spoke  to  the  Lord 
was  disturbing.  Such  things  were  manifestly  impossible 
if  David  resembled  other  men,  and  that  there  were  simi- 
larities between  the  ruler  of  Israel  ami  certain  male 
inhabitants  of  Elmsdale  was  suggested  by  numberless 
episodes  of  the  very  human  history  writ  in  the  Book  of 
Kings. 

"  The  Lord  "  was  a  terrific  personality  to  Martin — a 
personality  seated  on  a  thunder-cloud,  of  which  the 
upper  rim  of  gold  and  silver,  shining  gloriously  against 
a  cerulean  sky,  was  Heaven,  and  the  sullen  blackness 
beneath,  from  which  thunder  bellowed  and  lightning 
flashed,  was  Hell.  How  could  a  mere  man,  one  who 
pursued  women  like  a  too  susceptible  plowman,  one  who 
"  smote  "  his  fellows,  and  "  kissed  "  them,  and  ate  with 


Questionings  3 

them,  hold  instant  communion  with  the  tremendous 
Unseen,  the  ruler  of  sun  and  storm,  the  mover  of  worlds? 

"  David  inquired  of  the  Lord  " ;  "  David  said  to  the 
Lord  " ;  "  The  Lord  answered  unto  David  " — these 
phrases  tortured  a  busy  intelligence,  and  caused  the  big 
brown  eyes  to  flash  restlessly  toward  the  distant  hills, 
while  quick  ears  and  retentive  brain  paid  close  heed  to 
the  text. 

For  it  was  the  word,  not  the  spirit,  that  John  Bolland 
insisted  on.  The  boy  knew  too  well  the  penalty  of 
forgetfulness.  During  half  an  hour,  from  five  o'clock 
each  day,  he  was  led  drearily  through  the  Sacred  Book ; 
if  he  failed  to  answer  correctly  the  five  minutes'  ques- 
tioning which  followed,  the  lesson  was  repeated,  verse 
for  verse,  again,  and  yet  again,  as  a  punishment. 

At  half-past  four  o'clock  the  high  tea  of  a  north- 
country  farmhouse  was  served.  Then  the  huge  Bible 
was  produced  solemnly,  and  no  stress  of  circumstances, 
no  temporary  call  of  other  business,  was  permitted  to 
interfere  with  this  daily  task.  At  times,  Bolland  would 
be  absent  at  fairs  or  detained  in  some  distant  portion 
of  the  farm.  But  Martin's  "  portion  of  the  Scriptures  " 
would  be  marked  for  careful  reading,  and  severe  cor- 
poral chastisement  corrected  any  negligence.  Such  was 
the  old  farmer's  mania  in  this  regard  that  his  portly, 
kind-hearted  wife  became  as  strict  as  John  himself  in 
supervising  the  boy's  lesson,  merely  because  she  dreaded 
the  scene  that  would  follow  the  slightest  lapse. 

So  Martin  could  answer  glibly  that  Ahimaaz  was  the 
son  of  Zadok  and  that  Joab  plunged  three  darts  into 
Absalom's  heart  while  the  scapegrace  dangled  from  the 
oak.  Of  the  love  that  David  bore  his  son,  of  the  state- 


4  The  Revellers 

craft  that  impelled  a  servant  of  Israel  to  slay  the  dis- 
turber of  the  national  peace,  there  was  never  a  hint. 
Bolland's  stark  Gospel  was  harshly  definite.  There 
was  no  channel  in  his  gnarled  soul  for  the  turbulent  life- 
stream  flowing  through  the  ancient  text. 

The  cold-blooded  murder  of  Absalom,  it  is  true,  in- 
duced in  the  boy's  mind  a  certain  degree  of  belief  in  the 
narrative,  a  belief  somewhat  strained  by  the  manner  of 
Absalom's  capture.  Through  his  brain  danced  a  tableau 
vivant  of  the  scene  in  the  wood.  He  saw  the  gayly 
caparisoned  mule  gallop  madly  away,  leaving  its  rider 
struggling  with  desperate  arms  to  free  his  hair  from 
the  rough  grasp  of  the  oak. 

Then,  through  the  trees  came  a  startled  man-at-arms, 
who  ran  back  and  brought  one  other,  a  stately  warrior  in 
accouterments  that  shone  like  silver.  A  squabble  arose 
between  them  as  to  the  exact  nature  of  the  King's  order 
concerning  this  same  Absalom,  but  it  was  speedily  deter- 
mined by  the  leader,  Joab,  snatching  three  arrows  from 
the  soldier's  quiver  and  plunging  them  viciously,  one 
after  the  other,  into  the  breast  of  the  man  hanging  be- 
tween the  heaven  and  the  earth. 

Martin  wondered  if  Absalom  spoke  to  Joab.  Did  he 
cry  for  mercy  ?  Did  his  eyes  glare  awfully  at  his  relent- 
less foe?  Did  he  squeal  pitiful  gibberish  like  Tom 
Chandler  did  when  he  chopped  off  his  fingers  in  the  hay- 
cutter?  How  beastly  it  must  be  to  be  suspended  by 
your  own  hair,  and  see  a  man  come  forward  with  three 
barbed  darts  which  he  sticks  into  your  palpitating 
bosom,  probably  cursing  you  the  while! 

And  then  appeared  from  the  depths  of  the  wood  ten 
young  men,  who  behaved  like  cowardly  savages,  for  they 


Questionings  5 

hacked  the  poor  corpse  with  sword  and  spear,  and  made 
mock  of  a  gallant  if  erring  soldier  who  would  have  slain 
them  all  if  he  met  them  on  equal  terms. 

This  was  the  picture  that  flitted  before  the  boy's 
eyes,  and  for  one  instant  his  tongue  forgot  its  habitual 
restraint. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  why  didn't  David  ask  God  to 
save  his  son,  if  he  wished  him  to  live?  " 

"  Nay,  lad,  I  doan't  knoa.  You  mun  listen  te  what's 
written  i'  t'  Book — no  more  an'  no  less.  I  doan't  ho'd 
wi'  their  commentaries  an'  explanations,  an'  what  oor 
passon  calls  anilitical  disquisitions.  Tak'  t'  Word  as 
it  stands.  That's  all  'at  any  man  wants." 

Now,  be  it  observed  that  the  boy  used  good  English, 
whereas  the  man  spoke  in  the  broad  dialect  of  the  dales. 
Moreover,  Bolland,  an  out-and-out  Dissenter,  was  clan- 
nish enough  to  speak  of  "  our  "  parson,  meaning  thereby 
the  vicar  of  the  parish,  a  gentleman  whom  he  held  at 
arm's  length  in  politics  and  religion. 

The  latter  discrepancy  was  a  mere  village  colloquial- 
ism; the  other — the  marked  difference  between  father 
and  son — was  startling,  not  alone  by  reason  of  their 
varying  speech,  but  by  the  queer  contrast  they  offered 
in  manners  and  appearance. 

Bolland  was  a  typical  yeoman  of  the  moor  edge,  a 
tall,  strong  man,  twisted  and  bent  like  the  oak  which 
betrayed  Absalom,  slow  in  his  movements,  heavy  of  foot, 
and  clothed  in  brown  corduroy  which  resembled  curi- 
ously the  weatherbeaten  bark  of  a  tree.  There  was  a 
rugged  dignity  in  his  bearded  face,  and  the  huge  spec- 
tacles he  had  now  pushed  high  up  on  his  forehead  lent 
a  semblance  of  greater  age  than  he  could  lay  claim  to. 


6  The  Revellers 

Yet  was  he  a  lineal  descendant  of  Gurth,  the  swineherd, 
Gurth,  uncouth  and  unidealized. 

The  boy,  a  sturdy,  country-built  youngster  in  figure 
and  attire,  had  a  face  of  much  promise.  His  brow  was 
lofty  and  open,  his  mouth  firm  and  well  formed,  his  eyes 
fearless,  if  a  trifle  dreamy  at  times.  His  hands,  too, 
were  not  those  of  a  farmer's  son.  Strong  they 
were  and  scarred  with  much  use,  but  the  fingers 
tapered  elegantly,  and  the  thumbs  were  long  and 
straight. 

Certainly,  the  heavy-browed  farmer,  with  his  droop- 
ing nether  lip  and  clumsy  spatulate  digits,  had  not  be- 
queathed these  bucolic  attributes  to  his  son.  As  they 
sat  there,  in  the  cheerful  kitchen  where  the  sunbeams 
fell  on  sanded  floor  and  danced  on  the  burnished  con- 
tents of  a  full  "  dresser,"  they  presented  a  dissimilarity 
that  was  an  outrage  on  heredity. 

Usually,  the  reading  ended,  Martin  effaced  himself 
by  way  of  the  back  door.  Thence,  through  a  garden 
orchard  that  skirted  the  farmyard,  he  would  run  across 
a  meadow,  jump  two  hedges  into  the  lane  which  led  back 
to  the  village  street,  and  so  reach  the  green  where  the 
children  played  after  school  hours. 

He  was  forced  early  to  practice  a  degree  of  dissimu- 
lation. Though  he  hated  a  lie,  he  at  least  acted  a  rever- 
ent appreciation  of  the  chapter  just  perused.  His 
boyish  impulses  lay  with  the  cricketers,  the  minnow- 
catchers,  the  players  of  prisoner's  base,  the  joyous 
patrons  of  well-worn  "  pitch  "  and  gurgling  brook.  But 
he  knew  that  the  slightest  indication  of  grudging  this 
daily  half-hour  would  mean  the  confiscation  of  the  free 
romp  until  supper-time  at  half-past  eight.  So  he  paid 


Questionings  7 

heed  to  the  lesson,  and  won  high  praise  from  his  precep- 
tor in  the  oft-expressed  opinion: 

"  Martin  will  make  a  rare  man  i'  time." 

To-day  he  did  not  hurry  away  as  usual.  For  one 
reason,  he  was  going  with  a  gamekeeper  to  see  some 
ferreting  at  six  o'clock,  and  there  was  plenty  of  time; 
for  another,  it  thrilled  him  to  find  that  there  were  epi- 
sodes in  the  Bible  quite  as  exciting  as  any  in  the  pages 
of  "  The  Scalp-Hunters,"  a  forbidden  work  now  hidden 
with  others  in  the  store  of  dried  bracken  at  the  back 
of  the  cow-byre. 

So  he  said  rather  carelessly :  "  I  wonder  if  he  kicked?  " 

"  You  wunner  if  whea  kicked? "  came  the  slow 
response. 

"  Absalom,  when  Joab  stabbed  him.  The  other  day, 
when  the  pigs  were  killed,  they  all  kicked  like  mad." 

Bolland  laid  down  the  Bible  and  glanced  at  Martin 
with  a  puzzled  air.  He  was  not  annoyed  or  even  sur- 
prised at  the  unlooked-for  deduction.  It  had  simply 
never  occurred  to  him  that  one  might  read  the  Bible 
and  construct  actualities  from  the  plain-spoken  text. 

"  Hoo  div'  I  knoa?  "  he  said  calmly;  "it  says  nowt 
about  it  i'  t'  chapter." 

Then  Martin  awoke  with  a  start.  He  saw  how  nearly 
he  had  betrayed  himself  a  second  time,  how  ready  were 
the  lips  to  utter  ungoverned  thoughts. 

He  flushed  slightly. 

"  Is  that  all  for  to-day,  father?  "  he  said. 

Before  Bolland  could  answer,  there  came  a  knock  at 
the  door. 

"  See  whea  that  is,"  said  the  farmer,  readjusting  his 
spectacles. 


8  The  Revellers 

A  big,  hearty-looking  young  man  entered.  He 
wore  clothes  of  a  sporting  cut  and  carried  a  hunt- 
ing-crop, with  the  long  lash  gathered  in  his  fin- 
gers. 

"  Oah,  it's  you,  is  it,  Mr.  Pickerin'?"  said  Bolland, 
and  Martin's  quick  ears  caught  a  note  of  restraint, 
almost  of  hostility,  in  the  question. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Bolland,  an'  how  are  ye?  "  was  the  more 
friendly  greeting.  "  I  just  dropped  in  to  have  a  settle- 
ment about  that  beast." 

"A  sattlement!    What  soart  o'  sattlement?" 

The  visitor  sat  down,  uninvited,  and  produced  some 
papers  from  his  pocket. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bolland,"  he  said  quietly,  "it's  not 
more'n  four  months  since  I  gave  you  sixty  pounds  for 
a  thoroughbred  shorthorn,  supposed  to  be  in  calf  to 
Bainesse  Boy  the  Third." 

"  Right  enough,  Mr.  Pickerin'.  You've  gotten  t' 
certificates  and  t'  receipt  for  t'  stud  fee." 

Martin  detected  the  latent  animosity  in  both  voices. 
The  reiterated  use  of  the  prefix  "  Mr."  was  an  exag- 
gerated politeness  that  boded  a  dispute. 

"  Receipts,  certificates ! "  cried  Pickering  testily. 
"  What  good  are  they  to  me  ?  She  cannot  carry  a  calf. 
For  all  the  use  I  can  make  of  her,  I  might  as  well  have 
thrown  the  money  in  the  fire." 

"  Eh,  but  she's  a  well-bred  'un,"  said  Bolland,  with 
sapient  head-shake. 

"  She  might  be  a  first-prize  winner  at  the  Royal  by 
her  shape  and  markings ;  but,  as  matters  stand,  she'll 
bring  only  fifteen  pounds  from  a  butcher.  I  stand  to 
lose  forty-five  pounds  by  the  bargain." 


Questionings  9 

"  You  canna  fly  i'  t'  feace  o'  Providence,  Mr. 
Pickerin'." 

"  Providence  has  little  to  do  with  it,  I  fancy.  I  can 
sell  her  to  somebody  else,  if  I  like  to  work  a  swindle 
with  her.  I  had  my  doubts  at  the  time  that  she  was  too 
cheap." 

John  Bolland  rose.  His  red  face  was  dusky  with 
anger,  and  it  sent  a  pang  through  Martin's  heart  to  see 
something  of  fear  there,  too. 

"  Noo,  what  are  ye  drivin'  at  ?  "  he  growled,  speaking 
with  ominous  calmness. 

"  You  know  well  enough,"  came  the  straight  answer. 
"  The  poor  thing  has  something  wrong  with  her,  and  she 
will  never  hold  a  calf.  Look  here,  Bolland,  meet  me 
fairly  in  the  matter.  Either  give  me  back  twenty 
pounds,  and  we'll  cry  '  quits,'  or  sell  me  another  next 
spring  at  the  same  price,  and  I'll  take  my  luck." 

Perhaps  this  via  media  might  have  been  adopted  had 
it  presented  itself  earlier.  But  the  word  "  swindle  " 
stuck  in  the  farmer's  throat,  and  he  sank  back  into  his 
chair. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  he  said.  "  A  bargain's  a  bargain. 
You've  gotten  t'  papers " 

It  was  the  buyer's  turn  to  rise. 

"  To  the  devil  with  you  and  your  papers ! "  he 
shouted.  "  Do  you  think  I  came  here  without  making 
sure  of  my  facts?  Twice  has  this  cow  been  in  calf  in 
your  byre,  and  each  time  she  missed.  You  knew  her 
failing,  and  sold  her  under  false  pretenses.  Of  course, 
I  cannot  prove  it,  or  I  would  have  the  law  of  you ;  but  I 
did  think  you  would  act  squarely." 

For  some  reason  the  elder  Bolland  was  in  a  towering 


10  The  Revellers 

rage.  Martin  had  never  before  seen  him  so  angry,  and 
the  boy  was  perplexed  by  the  knowledge  that  what 
Pickering  said  was  quite  true. 

"  I'll  not  be  sworn  at  nor  threatened  wi'  t'  law  in  my 
own  house,"  bellowed  the  farmer.  "  Get  out !  Look  tiv' 
your  own  business  an'  leave  me  te  follow  mine." 

Pickering,  too,  was  in  a  mighty  temper.  He  took  a 
half  stride  forward  and  shook  out  the  thong  of  the  whip. 

"  You  psalm-singing  humbug !  "  he  thundered.  "  If 
you  were  a  younger  man " 

Martin  jumped  between  them ;  his  right  hand  clenched 
a  heavy  kitchen  poker. 

Pickering  half  turned  to  the  door  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

"  All  right,  my  young  cub !  "  he  shouted.  "  I'm  not 
such  a  fool,  thank  goodness,  as  to  make  bad  worse.  It's 
lucky  for  you,  boy,  that  you  are  not  of  the  same  kidney 
as  that  old  ranter  there.  Catch  me  ever  having  more  to 
do  with  any  of  his  breed." 

"  An'  what  affair  is  it  of  yours,  Mr.  Pickerin',  who 
the  boy  belongs  to?  If  all  tales  be  true,  you  can't 
afford  to  throw  stones  at  other  f olks's  glass  houses !  " 

Mrs.  Bolland,  stout,  hooded,  aproned,  and  fiery  red 
in  face,  had  come  from  the  dairy,  and  now  took  a  hand 
in  the  argument. 

Pickering,  annoyed  at  the  unlooked-for  presence  of 
a  woman,  said  sternly : 

"  Talk  to  your  husband,  not  to  me,  ma'am.  He 
wronged  me  by  getting  three  times  the  value  for  a  use- 
less beast,  and  if  you  can  convince  him  that  he  took  an 
unfair  advantage,  I'm  willing,  even  now " 

But  Mrs.  Bolland  had  caught  the  flicker  of  amaze- 
ment in  Martin's  eye  and  was  not  to  be  mollified. 


Questionings  11 

"Who  are  you,  I'd  like  to  know?"  she  shrilled, 
"  comin'  te  one's  house  an'  scandalizin'  us?  A  nice 
thing,  to  be  sure,  for  a  man  like  you  to  call  John  Bol- 
land  a  wrongdoer.  The  cow  won't  calve,  won't  she? 
'Tis  a  dispensation  on  you,  George  Pickerin'.  You're 
payin'  for  yer  own  misdeeds.  There's  plenty  i'  Elms- 
dale  whea  ken  your  char-ak-ter,  let  me  tell  you  that. 
What's  become  o'  Betsy  Thwaites  ?  " 

But  Pickering  had  resigned  the  contest.  He  was 
striding  toward  the  "  Black  Lion,"  where  a  dogcart 
awaited  him,  and  he  laughed  to  himself  as  the  flood  of 
vituperation  swelled  from  the  door  of  the  farm. 

"  Gad !  "  he  muttered,  "  how  these  women  must  cackle 
in  the  market!  One  old  cow  is  hardly  worth  so  much 
fuss!" 

Still  smiling  at  the  storm  he  had  raised,  he  gathered 
the  reins,  gave  Fred,  the  ostler,  a  sixpence,  and  would 
have  driven  off  had  he  not  seen  a  pretty  serving-maid 
gazing  out  through  an  upper  window.  Her  face  looked 
familiar. 

"  Hello !  "  he  cried.  "  You  and  I  know  each  other, 
don't  we?  " 

"  No,  we  doan't ;  an'  we're  not  likely  to,"  was  the  pert 
reply. 

"  Eh,  my !    What  have  I  done  now?  " 

"  Nowt  to  me,  but  my  sister  is  Betsy  Thwaites." 

"  The  deuce  she  is !  Betsy  isn't  half  as  nice-looking 
as  you." 

"  More  shame  on  you  that  says  it." 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,  one  should  tell  the  truth  and 
shame  the  devil." 

"  Just  listen  to  him !  "    Yet  the  window  was  raised  a 


12  The  Revellers 

little  higher,  and  the  girl  leaned  out,  for  Pickering  was 
a  handsome  man,  with  a  tremendous  reputation  for  gal- 
lantry of  a  somewhat  pronounced  type. 

Fred,  the  stable  help,  struck  the  cob  smartly  with  his 
open  hand.  Pickering  swore,  and  bade  him  leave  the 
mare  alone  and  be  off. 

"  I  was  sorry  for  Betsy,"  he  said,  when  the  prancing 
pony  was  quieted,  "  but  she  and  I  agreed  to  differ.  I 
got  her  a  place  at  Hereford,  and  hope  she'll  be  married 
soon." 

"  You'll  get  me  no  place  at  Hereford,  Mr.  Pickerin' ' 
— this  with  a  coquettish  toss  of  the  head. 

"  Of  course  not.    When  is  the  feast  here?  " 

"  Next  Monday  it  starts." 

"  Very  well.     Good-by.     I'll  see  you  on  Monday." 

He  blew  her  a  kiss,  and  she  laughed.  As  the  smart 
turnout  rattled  through  the  village  she  looked  after  him. 

"  Betsy  always  did  say  he  was  such  a  man,"  she  mur- 
mured. "  I'll  smack  his  feace,  though,  if  he  comes  near 
me  a-Monday." 

And  Fred,  leaning  sulkily  over  the  yard  gate,  spat 
viciously  on  Pickering's  sixpence. 

"  Coomin'  here  for  t'  feast,  is  he?"  he  growled. 
"  Happen  he'd  better  bide  i'  Nottonby." 


STRANGERS,  INDEED 

PICKERING  left  ruffled  breasts  behind  him.  The 
big  farm  in  the  center  of  the  village  was  known 
as  the  White  House,  and  had  been  owned  by  a  Bol- 
land  since  there  were  Bollands  in  the  county.  It  was 
perched  on  a  bank  that  rose  steeply  some  twenty  feet 
or  more  from  the  main  road.  Cartways  of  stiff  gradient 
led  down  to  the  thoroughfare  on  either  hand.  A  strong 
retaining  wall,  crowned  with  gooseberry  bushes,  marked 
the  confines  of  the  garden,  which  adjoined  a  row  of  cot- 
tages tenanted  by  laborers.  Then  came  the  White 
House  itself,  thatched,  cleanly,  comfortable-looking; 
beyond  it,  all  fronting  on  the  road,  were  stables  and 
outbuildings. 

Behind  lay  the  remainder  of  the  kitchen  garden  and 
an  orchard,  backed  by  a  strip  of  meadowland  that 
climbed  rapidly  toward  the  free  moor  with  its  whins  and 
heather — a  far-flung  range  of  mountain  given  over  to 
grouse  and  hardy  sheep,  and  cleft  by  tiny  ravines  of  ex- 
ceeding beauty. 

Across  the  village  street  stood  some  modern  iron- 
roofed  buildings,  where  Bolland  kept  his  prize  stock, 
and  here  was  situated  the  real  approach  to  the  couple 
of  hundred  acres  of  rich  arable  land  which  he  farmed. 
The  house  and  rear  pastures  were  his  own ;  he  rented  the 
rest.  Of  late  years  he  had  ceased  to  grow  grain,  save 

13 


14  The  Revellers 

for  the  limited  purposes  of  his  stock,  and  had  gone  in 
more  and  more  for  pedigree  cattle. 

Pickering's  words  had  hurt  him  sorely,  since  they  held 
an  element  of  truth.  The  actual  facts  were  these:  One 
of  his  best  cows  had  injtfred  herself  by  jumping  a  fence, 
and  a  calf  was  born  prematurely.  Oddly  enough,  a 
similar  accident  had  occurred  the  following  year.  On 
the  third  occasion,  when  the  animal  was  mated  with 
Bainesse  Boy  III,  Bolland  thought  it  best  not  to  tempt 
fortune  again,  but  sold  her  for  something  less  than  the 
enhanced  value  which  the  circumstances  warranted. 
From  a  similar  dam  and  the  same  sire  he  bred  a  yearling 
bull  which  realized  £250,  or  nearly  the  rent  of  his  hold- 
ing, so  Pickering  had  really  overstated  his  case,  making 
no  allowance  for  the  lottery  of  stock-raising. 

The  third  calf  might  have  been  normal  and  of  great 
value.  It  was  not.  Bolland  suspected  the  probable 
outcome  and  had  acted  accordingly.  It  was  the  charge 
of  premeditated  unfairness  that  rankled  and  caused  him 
such  heart-burning. 

When  Mrs.  Bolland,  turkey-red  in  face,  and  with  eyes 
still  glinting  fire,  came  in  and  slammed  the  door,  she 
told  Martin,  angrily,  to  be  off,  and  not  stand  there  with 
his  ears  cocked  like  a  terrier's. 

The  boy  went  out.  He  did  not  follow  his  accustomed 
track.  He  hesitated  whether  or  not  to  go  rabbiting. 
Although  far  too  young  to  attach  serious  import  to  the 
innuendoes  he  had  heard,  he  could  not  help  wondering 
what  Pickering  meant  by  that  ironical  congratulation 
on  the  subject  of  his  paternity. 

His  mother,  too,  had  not  repelled  the  charge  directly, 
but  had  gone  out  of  her  way  to  heap  counter-abuse  on 


Strangers,  Indeed  15 

the  vilifier.  It  was  odd,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  and  he 
found  himself  wishing  heartily  that  either  the  un- 
fortunate cow  had  not  been  sold  or  that  his  father  had 
met  Mr.  Pickering's  protests  more  reasonably. 

A  whistle  came  from  the  lane  that  led  up  to  the  moor. 
Perched  on  a  gate  was  a  white-headed  urchin. 

"  Aren't  ye  coomin'  te  t'  green?  "  was  his  cry,  seeing 
that  Martin  heard  him. 

"  Not  this  evening,  thanks." 

"  Oah,  coom  on.  They're  playin'  tig,  an'  none  of  'em 
can  ketch  Jim  Bates." 

That  settled  it.  Jim  Bates's  pride  must  be  lowered, 
and  ferrets  were  forgotten. 

But  Jim  Bates  had  his  revenge.  If  he  could  not  run 
as  fast  as  Martin,  he  made  an  excellent  pawn  in  the 
hands  of  fortune.  Had  the  boy  gone  to  the  rabbit 
warren,  he  would  not  have  seen  the  village  again  until 
after  eight  o'clock,  and,  possibly,  the  current  of  his  life 
might  have  entered  a  different  runnel.  In  the  event, 
however,  he  was  sauntering  up  the  village  street,  when 
he  encountered  a  lady  and  a  little  girl,  accompanied  by 
a  woman  whose  dress  reminded  him  of  nuns  seen  in 
pictures.  The  three  were  complete  strangers,  and 
although  Martin  was  unusually  well-mannered  for  one 
reared  in  a  remote  Yorkshire  hamlet,  he  could  not  help 
staring  at  them  fixedly. 

The  Normandy  nurse  alone  was  enough  to  draw  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  village,  and  Martin  knew  well  it  was 
owing  to  mere  chance  that  a  crowd  of  children  was  not 
following  her  already. 

The  lady  was  tall  and  of  stately  carriage.  She  was 
dressed  quietly,  but  in  excellent  taste.  Her  very  full 


16  The  Revellers 

face  looked  remarkably  pink,  and  her  large  blue  eyes 
stared  out  of  puffy  sockets.  Beyond  these  unfavorable 
details,  she  was  a  handsome  woman,  and  the  boy  thought 
vaguely  that  she  must  have  motored  over  from  the  castle 
midway  between  Elmsdale  and  the  nearest  market  town 
of  Nottonby. 

Yet  it  was  on  the  child  that  his  wondering  gaze  dwelt 
longest.  She  looked  about  ten  years  old.  Her  elfin 
face  was  enshrined  in  jet-black  hair,  and  two  big 
bright  eyes  glanced  inquiringly  at  him  from  the  depths 
of  a  wide-brimmed,  flowered-covered  hat.  A  broad  blue 
sash  girdled  her  white  linen  dress ;  the  starched  skirts 
stood  out  like  the  frills  of  a  ballet  dancer. 

Her  shapely  legs  were  bare  from  above  the  knees, 
and  her  tiny  feet  were  encased  in  sandals.  At  Trouville 
she  would  be  pronounced  "  sweet  "  by  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirers of  French  fashion,  but  in  a  north-country  vil- 
lage she  was  absurdly  out  of  place.  Nevertheless,  being 
a  remarkably  self-possessed  little  maiden,  she  returned 
with  interest  Martin's  covert  scrutiny. 

He  would  have  passed  on,  but  the  lady  lifted  a  pair 
of  mounted  eyeglasses  and  spoke  to  him. 

"  Boy,"  she  said  in  a  flute-like  voice,  "  can  you  tell 
me  which  is  the  White  House  ?  " 

Martin's  cap  flew  off. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  pointing.  "  That  is  it.  I 
live  there." 

"  Oh,  indeed.     And  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Martin  Court  Bolland,  ma'am." 

"  What  an  odd  name.  Why  were  you  christened 
Martin  Court?" 

"  I  really  don't  know,  ma'am.     I  didn't  bother  about 


Strangers,  Indeed  17 

it  at  the  time,  and  since  then  have  never  troubled  to 
inquire." 

Now,  to  be  candid,  Martin  did  not  throw  off  this 
retort  spontaneously.  It  was  a  little  effusion  built  up 
through  the  years,  the  product  of  frequent  necessity  to 
answer  the  question.  But  the  lady  took  it  as  a  corusca- 
tion of  rustic  wit,  and  laughed.  She  turned  to  the 
nurse : 

"  E  m'a  rendu  la  monnaie  de  ma  piece,  Fran9oise." 

"  J'en  suis  bien  sur,  madame,  mais  qu'est-ce  qu'il  a 
dit?  "  said  the  nurse. 

The  other  translated  rapidly,  and  the  nurse  grinned. 

"  Ah,  il  est  nai'f ,  le  petit,"  she  commented.  "  Et  tres 
gentil." 

"  Oh,  maman,"  chimed  in  the  child,  "  je  serais 
heureuse  si  vous  vouliez  me  permettre  de  jouer  avec  ce 
joli  gar9on." 

"  Attendez,  ma  belle.  Pas  si  vite.  .  .  .  Now,  Mar- 
tin Court,  take  me  to  your  mother." 

Not  knowing  exactly  what  to  do  with  his  cap,  the  boy 
had  kept  it  in  his  hand.  The  foregoing  conversation 
was,  of  course,  so  much  Greek  in  his  ears.  He  realized 
that  they  were  talking  about  him,  and  was  fully  alive 
to  the  girl's  demure  admiration.  The  English  words 
came  with  the  more  surprise,  seeing  that  they  followed 
so  quickly  on  some  remark  in  an  unknown  tongue. 

He  led  the  way  at  once,  hoping  that  his  mother  had 
regained  her  normal  condition  of  busy  cheerful- 
ness. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  front  kitchen  when  he  pressed 
the  latch.  The  room  was  empty,  but  the  clank  of  pat- 
tens in  the  yard  revealed  that  the  farmer's  thrifty  wife 


18  The  Revellers 

was  sparing  her  skirts  from  the  dirt  while  she  crossed 
to  the  pig  tub  with  a  pailful  of  garbage. 

"Will  you  take  a  seat,  ma'am?"  said  Martin  po- 
litely. "  I'll  tell  mother  you  are  here." 

With  a  slight  awkwardness  he  pulled  three  oaken 
chairs  from  the  serried  rank  they  occupied  along  the 
wall  beneath  the  high-silled  windows.  Feeling  all  eyes 
fixed  on  him  quizzically,  he  blushed. 

"  Ah,  v'la  le  p'tit.    II  rougit !  "  laughed  the  nurse. 

"  Don't  tease  him,  nurse !  "  cried  the  child  in  English. 
"  He  is  a  nice  boy.  I  like  him." 

Clearly  this  was  for  Martin's  benefit.  Already  the 
young  lady  was  a  coquette. 

Mrs.  Bolland,  hearing  there  were  "  ladies  "  to  visit 
her,  entered  with  trepidation.  She  expected  to  meet 
the  vicar's  aunt  and  one  of  that  lady's  friends.  In  a 
moment  of  weakness  she  had  consented  to  take  charge 
of  the  refreshment  stall  at  a  forthcoming  bazaar  in  aid 
of  certain  church  funds.  But  Bolland  was  told  that 
the  incumbent  was  adopting  ritualistic  practices,  so  he 
sternly  forbade  his  better  half  to  render  any  assistance 
whatsoever.  The  Established  Church  was  bad  enough; 
it  was  a  positive  scandal  to  introduce  into  the  service 
aught  that  savored  of  Rome. 

Poor  Mrs.  Bolland  therefore  racked  her  brain  for  a 
reasonable  excuse  as  she  crossed  the  yard,  and  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at  if  she  was  struck  almost  dumb  with 
surprise  at  sight  of  the  strangers. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Bolland?"  asked  the  lady,  without 
rising,  and  surveying  her  through  the  eyeglasses  with 
head  tilted  back. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 


Strangers,  Indeed  19 

"  Ah.  Exactly.  I — er — am  staying  at  The  Elms 
for  some  few  weeks,  and  the  people  there  recommended 
you  as  supplying  excellent  dairy  produce.  I  am — er — 
exceedingly  particular  about  butter  and  milk,  as  my 
little  girl  is  so  delicate.  Have  you  any  objection  to 
allowing  me  to  inspect  your  dairy?  I  may  add  that  I 
will  pay  you  well  for  all  that  I  order." 

The  lady's  accent,  no  less  than  the  even  flow  of  her 
words,  joined  to  unpreparedness  for  such  fashionable 
visitors,  temporarily  bereft  Mrs.  Holland  of  a  quick,  if 
limited,  understanding. 

"  Did  ye  say  ye  wanted  soom  bootermilk  ? "  she 
cried  vacantly. 

"  No,  mother,"  interrupted  Martin  anxiously.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  aware  of  a  hot  and 
uncomfortable  feeling  that  his  mother  was  manifestly 
inferior  to  certain  other  people  in  the  world.  "  The 
lady  wishes  to  see  the  dairy." 

"Why?" 

"  She  wants  to  buy  things  from  you,  and — er — I  sup- 
pose she  would  like  to  sefe  what  sort  of  place  we  keep 
them  in." 

No  manner  of  explanation  could  have  restored  Mrs. 
Holland's  normal  senses  so  speedily  as  the  slightest  hint 
that  .uncleanliness  could  harbor  its  microbes  in  her 
house. 

"  My  goodness,  ma'am,"  she  cried,  "  whea's  bin  tellin' 
you  that  my  pleace  hez  owt  wrong  wi't  ?  " 

Now  it  was  the  stranger's  turn  to  appeal  to  Martin, 
and  the  boy  showed  his  mettle  by  telling  his  mother,  in 
exact  detail,  the  request  made  by  the  lady  and  her  refer- 
ence to  the  fragile-looking  child. 


20  The  Revellers 

Mrs.  Holland's  wrath  subsided,  and  her  lips  widened 
in  a  smile. 

"  Oah,  if  that's  all,"  she  said,  "  coom  on,  ma'am,  an' 
welcome.  Ye  canna  be  too  careful  about  sike  things, 
an'  yer  little  lass  do  look  pukey,  te  be  sure." 

The  lady,  gathering  her  skirts  for  the  perilous  pas- 
sage of  the  yard,  followed  the  farmer's  wife. 

Martin  and  the  girl  sat  and  stared  at  each  other. 
She  it  was  who  began  the  conversation. 

"  Have  you  lived  here  long?  "  she  said. 

"  All  my  life,"  he  answered.  Pretty  and  well-dressed 
as  she  was,  he  had  no  dread  of  her.  He  regarded  girls 
as  spiteful  creatures  who  scratched  one  another  like 
cats  when  angry  and  shrieked  hysterically  when  they 
pla'yed. 

"  That's  not  very  long,"  she  cried. 

"  No ;  but  it's  longer  than  you've  lived  anywhere  else." 

"  Me !  I  have  lived  everywhere — in  London,  Berlin, 
Paris,  Nice,  Montreux — O,  je  ne  sais — I  beg  your  par- 
don. Perhaps  you  don't  speak  French?  " 

"  No." 

"  Would  you  like  to  learn?  " 

"  Yes,  very  much." 

"  I'll  teach  you.  It  will  be  such  fun.  I  know  all 
sorts  of  naughty  words.  I  learnt  them  in  Monte  Carlo, 
where  I  could  hear  the  servants  chattering  when  I  was 
put  to  bed.  Watch  me  wake  up  nurse.  Fran9oise,  mon 
chou!  Cre  nom  d'un  pipe,  mais  que  vous  etes  triste 
aujourd'hui! " 

The  bonne  started.    She  shook  the  child  angrily. 

"  You  wicked  girl ! "  she  cried  in  French.  "  If 
madame  heard  you,  she  would  blame  me." 


Strangers,  Indeed  21 

The  imp  cuddled  her  bare  knees  in  a  paroxysm  of 
glee. 

"  You  see,"  she  shrilled.     "  I  told  you  so." 

"  Was  all  that  swearing?  "  demanded  Martin  gravely. 

"  Some  of  it." 

"  Then  you  shouldn't  do  it.  If  I  were  your  brother, 
I'd  hammer  you." 

"  Oh,  would  you,  indeed !  I'd  like  to  see  any  boy  lay 
a  finger  on  me.  I'd  tear  his  hair  out  by  the  roots." 

,  Naturally,  the  talk  languished  for  a  while,  until 
Martin  thought  he  had  perhaps  been  rude  in  speaking 
so  brusquely. 

"  I'm  sorry  if  I  offended  you,"  he  said. 

The  saucy,  wide-open  eyes  sparkled. 

"  I  forgive  you,"  she  said.     "  How  old  are  you?  " 

"Fourteen.     And  you?" 

"  Twelve." 

He  was  surprised.  "  I  thought  you  were  younger,"  he 
said. 

"  So  does  everybody.  You  see,  I'm  tiny,  and  mamma 
dresses  me  in  this  baby  way.  I  don't  mind.  I  know 
your  name.  You  haven't  asked  me  mine." 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"  Angele.     Angele  Saumarez." 

"  I'll  never  be  able  to  say  that,"  he  protested. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will.  It's  quite  easy.  It  sounds 
Frenchy,  but  I  am  English,  except  in  my  ways,  mother 
says.  Now  try.  Say  '  An  ' " 

"  Ang " 

"  Not  so  much  through  your  nose.  This  way — 
'  An-gele.'  " 

The  next  effort  was  better,  but  tuition  halted  abruptly 


22  The  Revellers 

when  Martin  discovered  that  Angele's  mother,  instead 
of  being  "  Mrs.  Saumarez,"  was  "  the  Baroness  Irma 
von  Edelstein." 

"  Oh,  crikey !  "  he  blurted  out.    "  How  can  that  be?  " 

Angele  laughed  at  his  blank  astonishment. 

"  Mamma  is  a  German  baroness,"  she  explained. 
"  My  papa  was  a  colonel  in  the  British  army,  but 
mamma  did  not  lose  her  courtesy  title  when  she  mar- 
ried. Of  course,  she  is  Mrs.  Saumarez,  too." 

These  subtleties  of  Burke  and  the  Almanach  de 
Gotha  went  over  Martin's  head. 

"  It  sounds  a  bit  like  an  entry  in  a  stock  catalogue," 
he  said. 

Angele,  in  turn,  was  befogged,  but  saw  instantly  that 
the  village  youth  was  not  sufficiently  reverent  to  the 
claims  of  rank. 

"  You  can  never  be  a  gentleman  unless  you  learn  these 
things,"  she  announced  airily. 

"  You  don't  say,"  retorted  Martin  with  a  smile.  He 
was  really  far  more  intelligent  than  this  pert  monitress, 
and  had  detected  a  curious  expression  on  the  stolid  face 
of  Fran9oise  when  the  Baroness  von  Edelstein's  name 
cropped  up  in  a  talk  which  she  could  not  understand. 
The  truth  was  that  the  canny  Norman  woman,  though 
willing  enough  to  take  a  German  mistress's  gold,  thor- 
oughly disliked  the  lady's  nationality.  Martin  could 
only  guess  vaguely  at  something  of  the  sort,  but  the 
mere  guess  sufficed. 

Angele,  however,  wanted  no  more  bickering  just  then. 
She  was  about  to  resume  the  lesson  when  the  Baroness 
and  Mrs.  Bolland  re-entered  the  house.  Evidently  the 
inspection  of  the  dairy  had  been  satisfactory,  and  the 


Strangers,  Indeed  23 

lady  had  signified  her  approval  in  words  that  pleased 
the  older  woman  greatly. 

The  visitor  was  delighted,  too,  with  the  old-world 
appearance  of  the  kitchen,  the  heavy  rafters  with  their 
load  of  hams  and  sides  of  bacon,  the  oaken  furniture, 
the  spotless  white  of  the  well-scrubbed  ash-topped  table, 
the  solemn  grandfather's  clock,  and  the  rough  stone 
floor,  over  which  soft  red  sandstone  had  been  rubbed 
when  wet. 

By  this  time  the  tact  of  the  woman  of  society  had 
accommodated  her  words  and  utterance  to  the  limited 
comprehension  of  her  hearer,  and  she  displayed  such 
genuine  interest  in  the  farm  and  its  belongings  that  Mrs. 
Bolland  gave  her  a  hearty  invitation  to  come  next  morn- 
ing, when  the  light  would  be  stronger.  Then  "  John  " 
would  let  her  see  his  prize  stock  and  the  extensive  build- 
ings on  "  t'  other  side  o'  t'  road.  .  .  .  T'kye  (the 
cows)  were  fastened  up  for  t'neet  "  by  this  time. 

The  baroness  was  puzzled,  but  managed  to  catch  the 
speaker's  drift. 

"  I  do  not  rise  very  early,"  she  said.  "  I  breakfast 
about  eleven" — she  could  not  imagine  what  a  sensation 
this  statement  caused  in  a  house  where  breakfast  was 
served  never  later  than  seven  o'clock — "  and  it  takes  me 
an  hour  to  dress;  but  I  can  call  about  twelve,  if  that 
will  suit." 

"  Ay,  do,  ma'am,"  was  the  cheery  agreement.  "  You'll 
be  able  to  see  t'  farm-hands  havin'  their  dinner.  It's  a 
fair  treat  te  watch  them  men  an'  lads  puttin'  away  a 
beefsteak  pie." 

"  And  this  is  your  little  boy  ?  "  said  the  other,  evi- 
dently inclined  for  gossip. 


24  The  Revellers 

«  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  He  is  a  splendid  little  fellow.  What  a  nice  name 
you  gave  him — Martin  Court  Bolland — so  unusual. 
How  came  you  to  select  his  Christian  names?  " 

The  question  caused  the  farmer's  wife  a  good  deal  of 
unnoticed  embarrassment.  The  baroness  was  looking 
idly  at  an  old  colored  print  of  York  Castle,  and  the 
boy  himself  was  far  too  taken  up  with  Angele  to  listen 
to  the  chat  of  his  elders. 

Mrs.  Bolland  laughed  confusedly. 

"Martin,"  she  said.  "  Tak  t'  young  leddy  an'  t' 
nurse  as  far  as  t'  brig,  an'  show  'em  t'  mill." 

The  baroness  was  surprised  at  this  order,  but  an  ex- 
planation was  soon  forthcoming.  In  her  labored  speech 
and  broad  dialect,  the  farmer's  wife  revealed  a  startling 
romance.  Thirteen  years  ago  her  husband's  brother 
died  suddenly  while  attending  a  show  at  Islington,  and 
the  funeral  took  John  and  herself  to  London.  They 
found  the  place  so  vast  and  noisy  that  it  overwhelmed 
them;  but  in  the  evening,  after  the  ceremony  at  Abn^y 
Park,  they  strolled  out  from  their  hotel  near  King's 
Cross  Station  to  see  the  sights. 

Not  knowing  whither  they  were  drifting,  they  found 
themselves,  an  hour  later,  gazing  at  St.  Paul's  Cathedral 
from  the  foot  of  Ludgate  Hill.  They  were  walking 
toward  the  stately  edifice,  when  a  terrible  thing  hap- 
pened. 

A  young  woman  fell,  or  threw  herself,  from  a  fourth- 
floor  window  onto  the  pavement  of  St.  Martin's  Court. 
In  her  arms  was  an  infant,  a  boy  twelve  months  old. 
P  idence  saved  him  from  the  instant  death  met  by  his 
lother.  A  projecting  signboard  caught  his  clothing, 


Strangers,  Indeed  25 

tore  him  from  the  encircling  arms,  and  held  him  a  pre- 
carious second  until  the  rent  frock  gave  way. 

But  John  Bolland's  sharp  eyes  had  noted  the  child's 
momentary  escape.  He  sprang  forward  and  caught  the 
tiny  body  as  it  dropped.  At  that  hour,  nearly  nine 
o'clock,  the  court  was  deserted,  and  Ludgate  Hill  hact 
lost  much  of  its  daily  crowd.  Of  course,  a  number  of 
passers-by  gathered;  and  a  policeman  took  the  names 
and  address  of  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  they  being  the 
only  actual  witnesses  of  the  tragedy. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  baby?  Mrs.  Bol- 
land  volunteered  to  take  care  of  it  for  the  night,  and 
the  policeman  was  glad  enough  to  leave  it  with  her  when 
he  ascertained  that  no  one  in  the  house  from  which  the 
woman  fell  knew  anything  about  her  save  that  she  was 
a  "  Mrs.  Martineau,"  and  rented  a  furnished  room  be- 
neath the  attic. 

The  inquest  detained  the  Bollands  another  day  in 
town.  Police  inquiries  showed  that  the  unfortunate 
young  woman  had  committed  suicide.  A  letter,  stuck 
to  a  dressing-table  with  a  hatpin,  stated  her  intention, 
and  that  her  name  was  not  Martineau.  Would  the  lady 
like  to  see  the  letter? 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  "  said  the  baroness  hastily.  "  Your 
story  is  awfully  interesting,  but  I  could  not  bear  to  read 
the  poor  creature's  words." 

Well,  the  rest  was  obvious.  Mrs.  Bolland  was  child- 
less after  twenty  years  of  married  life.  She  begged  for 
the  bairn,  and  her  husband  allowed  her  to  adopt  it. 
They  gave  the  boy  their  own  name,  but  christened  him 
after  the  scene  of  his  mother's  death  and  his  own  mvv/^- 
ulous  escape.  And  there  he  was  now,  coming  up  thn 


26  The  Revellers 

village  street,  leading  Angele  confidently  by  the  hand — a 
fine,  intelligent  lad,  and  wholly  different  from  every 
other  boy  in  the  village. 

Not  even  the  squire's  sons  equaled  him  in  any  respect, 
and  the  teacher  of  the  village  school  gave  him  special  les- 
sons. Perhaps  the  lady  had  noticed  the  way  he  spoke. 
The  teacher  was  proud  of  Martin's  abilities,  and  he 
tried  to  please  her  by  not  using  the  Yorkshire  dialect. 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  said  the  baroness  quietly.  "  His  his- 
tory is  quite  romantic.  But  what  will  he  become  when 
he  grows  up — a  farmer,  like  his  adopted  father?  " 

"  John  thinks  te  mak'  him  a  minister,"  said  Mrs. 
Bolland  with  genial  pride. 

"  A  minister !  Do  you  mean  a  preacher,  a  Noncon- 
formist person  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  ma'am.  John  wouldn't  hear  of  his  bein' 
a  parson." 

"  Grand  Dieu  !  Quelle  betise !  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Of  course,  you  will  do  what  is  best  for  him.  .  .  .  Well, 
ma  belle,  have  you  enjoyed  your  little  walk?  " 

"  Oh,  so  much,  maipma.  The  miller  has  such  lovely 
pigs,  so  fat,  so  tight,  that  you  can't  pinch  them.  And 
there's  a  beautiful  dog/^Kth  four  puppy  dogs.  I'm  so 
glad  we  came  here.  J'eh  suis  bien  aise." 

"  She's  a  queer  little  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Bolland,  as 
Martin  and  she  watched  the  party  walking  back  to  The 
Elms.  "  I  couldn't  tell  half  what  she  said." 

"  No,  mother,"  he  replied.  "  She  goes  off  into  French 
without  thinking,  and  her  mother's  a  German  baroness, 
who  married  an  English  officer.  The  nurse  doesn't  speak 
any  English.  I  wish  I  knew  French  and  German. 
French,  at  any  rate." 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  SEEDS  OF  MISCHIEF 

PREPARATIONS  for  the  forthcoming  "  Feast "  were 
varied  by  gossip  concerning  "  the  baroness,"  her  daugh- 
ter, and  the  Normandy  bonne.  Elmsdale  had  never  be- 
fore set  eyes  on  any  human  beings  quite  so  foreign  to 
its  environment.  At  first,  the  canny  Yorkshire  folk 
were  much  intrigued  by  the  lady's  title.  A  princess  or 
a  duchess  they  had  read  of ;  a  marchioness  and  a  countess 
they  had  seen,  because  the  county  of  broad  acres  finds 
room  for  a  great  many  noble  houses;  and  baronets' 
wives,  each  a  "  Lady  "  by  perspective  right,  were  so 
plentiful  as  to  arouse  no  special  comment. 

But  a  "  baroness "  was  rather  un-English,  while 
Elmsdale  frankly  refused  to  pronounce  her  name  other 
than  "  Eedelsteen."  The  village  was  ready  to  allude 
to  her  as  "  her  ladyship,"  but  was  still  doubtful  whether 
or  not  to  grant  her  the  prefix  "  Lady,"  when  the  ques- 
tion was  settled  in  a  wholly  unexpected  way  by  the 
announcement  that  the  baroness  preferred  to  be  ad 
dressed  as  "  Mrs.  Saumarez."  In  fact,  she  was  rather 
annoyed  that  Angele  should  have  flaunted  the  title  at 
.all. 

"  I  am  English  by  marriage,  and  proud  of  my  hus- 
band's name,"  she  explained.  "  He  was  a  gallant  officer, 
who  fell  in  the  Boer  War,  and  I  have  long  since  left  the 
use  of  my  German  rank  for  purely  official  occasions. 

27 


28  The  Revellers 

It  is  no  secret,  of  course,  but  Angele  should  not  have 
mentioned  it." 

Elmsdale  liked  this  democratic  utterance.  It  made 
these  blunt  Yorkshire  folk  far  readier  to  address  her 
as  "  your  ladyship  "  than  would  have  been  the  case 
otherwise,  and,  truth  to  tell,  she  never  chided  them  for 
any  lapse  of  the  sort,  though,  in  accordance  with  her 
wish,  she  became  generally  known  as  Mrs.  Saumarez. 

She  rented  a  suite  at  The  Elms,  a  once  pretentious 
country  mansion  owned  by  a  family  named  Walker. 
The  males  had  died,  the  revenues  had  dwindled,  and  two 
elderly  maiden  ladies,  after  taking  counsel  with  the 
vicar,  had  advertised  their  house  in  a  society  newspaper. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  said  she  was  an  invalid.  She  required 
rest  and  good  air.  Fran9oise,  since  Angele  had  out- 
grown the  attentions  of  a  nurse,  was  employed  mainly 
as  her  mistress's  confidential  servant.  Fran9oise  either 
could  not  or  would  not  speak  English;  Mrs.  Saumarez 
gave  excellent  references  and  no  information  as  to  her 
past,  while  Angele's  volatile  reminiscences  of  continental 
society  had  no  meaning  for  Elmsdale. 

But  it  was  abundantly  clear  that  Mrs.  Saumarez  was 
rich.  She  swept  aside  the  arrangements  made  by  the 
Misses  Walker  for  her  comfort,  chose  her  own  set  of 
apartments,  ordered  things  wholly  her  own  way,  and 
paid  double  the  terms  originally  demanded. 

The  day  following  her  visit  to  the  White  House  she 
descended  on  the  chief  grocer,  whose  shop  was  an  em- 
porium of  many  articles  outside  his  trade,  but  mostly 
of  a  cheap  order. 

"  Mr.  Webster,"  she  said  in  her  grand  manner,  "  few 
of  the  goods  you  stock  will  meet  my  requirements.  I 


The  Seeds  of  Mischief  29 

prefer  to  deal  with  local  tradesmen,  but  they  must  meet 
my  wants.  Now,  if  you  are  prepared  to  cater  for  me, 
you  will  not  only  save  me  the  trouble  of  ordering  supplies 
from  London,  but  make  some  extra  profit.  You  have 
proper  agents,  no  doubt,  so  you  must  obtain  everything 
of  the  best  quality.  You  understand.  I  shall  never 
grumble  at  the  prices ;  but  the  least  inferiority  will  lead 
me  to  withdraw  my  custom." 

It  was  a  sore  point  with  Mr.  Webster  that  "  the 
squire  "  dealt  with  the  Stores.  He  promised  implicit 
obedience,  and  wrote  such  instructions  to  Leeds,  his 
supply  town,  that  the  wholesale  house  there  wondered 
who  had  come  to  live  at  Elmsdale. 

The  proprietress  of  the  "  Black  Lion,"  hearing  the 
golden  tales  that  circulated  through  the  village,  dressed 
in  her  best  one  afternoon  and  called  at  The  Elms  in 
the  hope  of  obtaining  patronage  for  wines,  bottled  beer, 
and  mineral  waters.  Mrs.  Saumarez  was  resting.  The 
elder  Miss  Walker  conveyed  Mrs.  Atkinson's  name  and 
business.  Some  conversation  took  place  between  Mrs. 
Saumarez  and  Fran9oise,  with  the  result  that  Mrs. 
Atkinson  was  instructed  to  supply  Schweppe's  soda 
water,  but  "  no  intoxicants." 

So  Mrs.  Saumarez  was  a  teetotaller.  The  secretary 
of  the  local  branch  of  the  Good  Templars  donned  a  faded 
black  coat  and  a  rusty  tall  hat  and  sent  in  a  subscrip- 
tion list.  It  came  out  with  a  guinea.  The  vicar  was  at 
The  Elms  next  day.  Mrs.  Saumarez  received  him  gra- 
ciously and  gave  him  a  five-pound  note  toward  the 
funds  of  the  bazaar  which  would  be  opened  next  week. 
Most  decidedly  the  lady  was  an  acquisition.  When 
Miss  Martha  Walker  was  enjoined  by  her  sister,  Miss 


30  The  Revellers 

Emmy,  to  find  out  how  long  Mrs.  Saumarez  intended  to 
remain  at  Elmsdale — on  the  plausible  pretext  that  the 
terms  would  be  lowered  for  a  monthly  tenancy — she 
was  given  a  curt  reply. 

"  I  am  a  creature  of  moods.  I  may  be  here  a  day,  a 
year.  At  present  the  place  suits  me.  And  Angele  is 
brimming  over  with  health.  But  it  is  fatal  if  I  am  told  I 
must  remain  a  precise  period  anywhere.  That  is  why 
I  never  go  to  Carlsbad." 

Miss  Martha  did  not  understand  the  reference  to 
Carlsbad;  but  the  nature  of  the  reply  stopped  effectu- 
ally all  further  curiosity  as  to  Mrs.  Saumarez's  plans. 
It  also  insured  unflagging  service. 

Hardly  a  day  passed  that  the  newcomer  did  not  call 
at  the  White  House.  She  astounded  John  Bolland  by 
the  accuracy  of  her  knowledge  concerning  stock,  and 
annoyed  him,  too,  by  remarking  that  some  of  his  land 
required  draining. 

"  Your  lower  pastures  are  too  rank,"  she  said.  "  So 
long  as  there  is  a  succession  of  fine  seasons  it  does  not 
matter,  but  a  wet  spring  and  summer  will  trouble  you. 
You  will  have  fifty  acres  of  water-sodden  meadows,  and 
nothing  breeds  disease  more  quickly." 

"  None  o'  my  cattle  hev  had  a  day's  illness,  short  o' 
bein5  a  trifle  overfed  wi'  oil  cake,"  he  said  testily. 

"  Quite  so.  You  told  me  that  in  former  years  you 
raised  wheat  and  oats  there.  I'm  talking  about  grass." 

Martin  and  Angele  became  close  friends.  The  only 
children  of  the  girl's  social  rank  in  the  neighborhood 
were  the  vicar's  daughter,  Elsie  Herbert,  and  the  squire's 
two  sons,  Frank  and  Ernest  Beckett-Smythe.  Mr. 
Beckett-Smythe  was  a  widower.  He  lived  at  the  Hall, 


The  Seeds  of  Mischief  31 

three-quarters  of  a  mile  away,  and  had  not  as  yet  met 
Mrs.  Saumarez.  Angele  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
Elsie. 

"  I  don't  like  her,"  she  confided  to  Martin.  "  She 
doesn't  care  for  boys,  and  I  adore  them.  She's  trop 
reglee  for  me." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Well,  sjie  holds  her  nose — so." 

Angele  tilted  her  head  and  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"  Of  course,  I  don't  know  her,  but  she  seems  to  be  a 
nice  girl,"  said  Martin. 

"Why  do  you  say,  'Of  course,  I  don't  know  her'? 
She  lives  here,  doesn't  she?  " 

"  Yes,  but  my  father  is  a  farmer.  She  has  a 
governess,  and  goes  to  tea  at  the  Hall.  I've  met 
her  driving  from  the  Castle.  She's  above  me,  you 
see." 

Angele  laughed  maliciously. 

"  O  la  la !  c'est  pour  rire !  I'm  sorry.  She  is — what 
do  you  say — a  little  snob." 

"  No,  no,"  protested  Martin.  "  I  think  she  would 
be  very  nice,  if  I  knew  her.  You'll  like  her  fine  when 
you  play  with  her." 

"  Me !  Play  with  her,  so  prim,  so  pious.  I  prefer 
Jim  Bates.  He  winked  at  me  yesterday." 

"  Did  he  ?  Next  time  I  see  him  I'll  make  it  hard  for 
him  to  wink." 

Angele  clapped  her  hands  and  pirouetted. 

"  What,"  she  cried,  "  you  will  fight  him,  and  for  me ! 
What  joy!  It's  just  like  a  story  book.  You  must 
kick  him,  so,  and  he  will  fall  down,  and  I  will  kiss  you." 

"  I  will  not  kick  him,"  said  the  indignant  Martin. 


32  The  Revellers 

"  Boys  don't  kick  in  England.  And  I  don't  want  to  be 
kissed." 

"  Don't  boys  kiss  in  England  ?  " 

"  Well   .    .    .    anyhow,  I  don't." 

"  Then  we  are  not  sweethearts.  I  shan't  kiss  you, 
and  you  must  just  leave  Jim  Bates  alone." 

Martin  was  humiliated.  He  remained  silent  and 
angry  during  the  next  minute.  By  a  quick  turn  in  the 
conversation  Angele  had  placed  him  in  a  position  of 
rivalry  with  another  boy,  one  with  whom  she  had  not 
exchanged  a  word. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  after  taking  thought,  "  if  I 
kiss  your  cheek,  may  I  lick  Jim  Bates  ?  " 

This  magnanimous  offer  was  received  with  derision. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  do  either.  If  you  do,  I'll  tell  your 
father." 

The  child  had  discovered  already  the  fear  with  which 
Martin  regarded  the  stern,  uncompromising  Methodist 
yeoman — a  fear,  almost  a  resentment,  due  to  Bolland's 
injudicious  attempts  to  guide  a  mere  boy  into  the  path 
of  serious  and  precise  religion.  Never  had  Martin 
found  the  daily  reading  of  Scripture  such  a  burden  as 
during  the  past  few  days.  The  preparations  for  the 
feast,  the  cricket-playing,  running  and  jumping  of  the 
boys  practicing  for  prizes — these  disturbing  influences 
interfered  sadly  with  the  record  of  David's  declining 
years. 

Even  now,  with  Angele's  sarcastic  laughter  ringing 
in  his  ears,  he  was  compelled  to  leave  her  and  hurry  to 
the  front  kitchen,  where  the  farmer  was  waiting  with  the 
Bible  opened.  At  the  back  door  he  paused  and  looked 
at  her.  She  blew  him  a  kiss. 


The  Seeds  of  Mischief  33 

"  Good  boy !  "  she  cried.  "  Mind  you  learn  your 
lesson." 

"  And  mind  you  keep  away  from  those  cowsheds. 
Your  nurse  ought  to  have  been  here.  It's  tea 
time." 

"  I  don't  want  any  tea.  I'm  going  to  smell  the  milk. 
I  love  the  smell  of  a  farmyard.  Don't  you?  But,  there ! 
You  have  never  smelt  anything  else.  Every  place  has 
its  own  smell.  Paris  smells  like  smoky  wood.  London 
smells  of  beer.  Here  there  is  always  the  smell  of 
cows  ..." 

"  Martin ! "  called  a  harsh  voice  from  the  interior, 
and  the  boy  perforce  brought  his  wandering  wits  to 
bear  on  the  wrongdoing  of  David  in  taking  a  census  of 
the  people  of  Israel. 

He  read  steadily  through  the  chapter  which  de- 
scribed how  a  pestilence  swept  from  Dan  to  Beersheba 
and  destroyed  seventy  thousand  men,  all  because  David 
wished  to  know  how  many  troops  he  could  muster. 

He  could  hear  Angele  talking  to  the  maids  and  mak- 
ing them  laugh.  A  caravan  lumbered  through  the 
street;  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  carved  wooden  horses' 
heads  and  gilded  moldings.  His  quick  and  retentive 
brain  mastered  the  words  of  the  chapter,  but  to-day 
there  was  no  mysterious  and  soul-awakening  glimpse  of 
its  spirit. 

"  What  did  David  say  te  t'  Lord  when  t'  angel  smote 
t'  people?"  said  Bolland  when  the  moment  came  to 
question  his  pupil. 

"  He  said,  *  Lo,  I  have  sinned ;  but  what  have  these 
sheep  done  ? ' 

"And  what  sin  had  he  dean?" 


34  The  Revellers 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  the  whole  thing  was  jolly 
unfair." 

"What!"  John  Bolland  laid  down  the  Bible  and 
rested  both  hands  on  the  arms  of  the  chair  to  steady 
himself.  Had  he  heard  aright?  Was  the  boy  daring 
to  criticize  the  written  word? 

But  Martin's  brain  raced  ahead  of  the  farmer's  slow- 
rising  wrath.  He  trembled  at  the  abyss  into  which  he 
had  almost  fallen.  What  horror  if  he  lost  an  hour  on 
this  Saturday,  the  Saturday  before  the  Feast,  of  all 
days  in  the  year! 

"  I  didn't  quite  mean  that,"  he  said,  "  but  it  doesn't 
say  why  it  was  wrong  for  a  census  to  be  taken,  and  it 
does  say  that  when  the  angel  stretched  his  hand  over 
Jerusalem  the  Lord  repented  of  the  evil." 

Bolland  bent  again  over  the  book.  Yes,  Martin  was 
right.  He  was  letter  perfect. 

"  It  says  nowt  about  unfairness,"  growled  the  man 
slowly. 

"  No.     That  was  my  mistake." 

"  Ye  mun  tak'  heed  agin  misteaks  o'  that  sort.  On 
Monday  we  begin  t'  Third  Book  o'  Kings." 

So,  not  even  the  Feast  would  be  allowed  to  interfere 
with  the  daily  lesson. 

Angele  had  departed  with  the  belated  Fran9oise. 
Martin,  running  through  the  orchard  like  a  hare,  dou- 
bled to  the  main  road  along  the  lane.  In  two  minutes 
he  was  watching  the  unloading  of  the  roundabout  in 
front  of  the  "  Black  Lion."  Jim  Bates  was  there. 

"  Here,  I  want  you,"  said  Martin.  "  You  winked  at 
Angele  Saumarez  yesterday." 

"  Winked  at  whea  ?  "  demanded  Jim. 


The  Seeds  of  Mischief  35 

"  At  the  young  lady  who  lives  at  The  Elms." 

"  Not  afore  she  pulled  a  feace  at  me." 

"  Well,  if  you  wink  at  her  again  I'll  lick  you." 

"  Mebbe." 

"  There's  no  *  mebbe  '  about  it.  Come  down  to  the 
other  end  of  the  green  now,  if  you  think  I  can't." 

Jim  Bates  was  no  coward,  but  he  was  faced  with  the 
alternative  of  yielding  gracefully  and  watching  the 
showmen  at  work  or  risking  a  defeat  in  a  needless  battle. 
He  chose  the  better  part  of  valor. 

"  It's  nean  o'  my  business,"  he  said.  "  I  dean't  want 
te  wink  at  t'  young  leddy." 

At  the  inn  door  Mrs.  Atkinson's  three  little  girls 
were  standing  with  Kitty  Thwaites,  the  housemaid. 
The  eldest,  a  bonnie  child,  whose  fair  skin  was  covered 
with  freckles,  ran  toward  Martin. 

'*  Where  hae  ye  bin  all  t'  week  ?  "  she  inquired.  "  Are 
ye  always  wi'  that  Saumarez  girl  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  heerd  tell  she  was  at  your  pleace  all  hours.  What 
beautiful  frocks  she  has,  but  I  should  be  asheamed  te 
show  me  legs  like  her." 

"  That's  the  way  she  dresses,"  said  Martin  curtly. 

"  How  funny.     Is  she  fond  of  you  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know?  "    He  tried  to  edge  away. 

Evelyn  tossed  her  head. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care.    Why  should  I?" 

"  There's  no  reason  that  I  can  tell." 

"  You  soon  forget  yer  friends.  On'y  last  Whit  Mon- 
day ye  bowt  me  a  packet  of  chocolates." 

There  was  truth  in  this.  Martin  quitted  her  sheep- 
ishly. He  drew  near  some  men,  one  of  whom  was  Fred, 


36  The  Revellers 

the  groom,  and  Fred  had  been  drinking,  as  a  prelimi- 
nary to  the  deeper  potations  of  the  coming  week. 

"  Ay,  there  she  is !  "  he  muttered,  with  an  angry  leer 
at  Kitty.  "  She  thinks  what's  good  eneuf  fer  t'  sister 
is  good  eneuf  fer  her.  We'll  see.  Oad  John  Bollan' 
sent  'im  away  wiv  a  flea  i'  t'  lug  a-Tuesday.  I  reckon 
he'll  hev  one  i'  t'other  ear  if  'e  comes  after  Kitty." 

One  of  the  men  grinned  contemptuously. 

"  Gan  away !  "  he  said.  "  George  Pickerin'  ud  chuck 
you  ower  t'  top  o'  t'  hotel  if  ye  said  '  Booh  '  to  'im."  . 

But  Fred,  too,  grinned,  blinking  like  an  owl  in  day- 
light. 

"  Them  as  lives  t'  longest  sees  t'  meast,"  he  muttered, 
and  walked  toward  the  stables,  passing  close  to  Kitty, 
who  looked  through  him  without  seeing  him. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  stir  among  the  loiterers.  Mrs. 
Saumarez  was  walking  through  the  village  with  Mr. 
Beckett-Smythe.  Behind  the  pair  came  the  squire's  two 
sons  and  Angele.  The  great  man  had  called  on  the  new 
visitor  to  Elmsdale,  and  together  they  strolled  forth, 
while  he  explained  the  festivities  of  the  coming  week,  and 
told  the  lady  that  these  "  feasts  "  were  the  creation  of 
an  act  of  Charles  II.  as  a  protest  against  the  Puritan- 
ism of  the  Commonwealth. 

Martin  stood  at  the  side  of  the  road.  Mrs.  Saumarez 
did  not  notice  him,  but  Angele  did.  She  lifted  her  chin 
and  dropped  her  eyelids  in  clever  burlesque  of  Elsie 
Herbert,  the  vicar's  daughter,  but  ignored  him  other- 
wise. Martin  was  hurt,  though  he  hardly  expected  to 
be  spoken  to  in  the  presence  of  distinguished  company. 
But  he  could  not  help  looking  after  the  party.  Angele 
turned  and  caught  his  glance.  She  put  out  her  tongue. 


The  Seeds  of  Mischief  37 

He  heard  a  mocking  laugh  and  knew  that  Evelyn 
Atkinson  was  telling  her  sisters  of  the  incident,  where- 
upon he  dug  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  whistled. 

A  shooting  gallery  was  in  process  of  erection,  and  its 
glories  soon  dispelled  the  gloom  of  Angele's  snub.  The 
long  tube  was  supported  on  stays,  the  target  put  in 
place,  the  gaudy  front  pieced  together,  and  half  a  dozen 
rifles  unpacked.  The  proprietor  meant  to  earn  a  few 
honest  pennies  that  night,  and  some  of  the  men  were 
persuaded  to  try  their  prowess. 

Martin  was  a  born  sportsman.  He  watched  the  com- 
petitors so  keenly  that  Angele  returned  with  her  youth- 
ful cavaliers  without  attracting  his  attention.  Worse 
than  that,  Evelyn  Atkinson,  scenting  the  possibility  of 
rustic  intrigue,  caught  Martin's  elbow  and  asked  quite 
innocently  why  a  bell  rang  if  the  shooter  hit  the  bull's- 
eye. 

Proud  of  his  knowledge,  he  explained  that  there  was 
a  hole  in  the  iron  plate,  and  that  no  bell,  but  a  sheet  of 
copper,  was  suspended  in  the  box  at  the  back  where  the 
lamp  was. 

Both  Angele  and  Evelyn  appreciated  the  situation 
exactly.  The  boy  alone  was  ignorant  of  their  tacit 
rivalry. 

Angele  pointed  out  Martin  to  the  Beckett-Smythes. 

*'  He  is  such  a  nice  boy,"  she  said  sweetly.  "  I  see 
him  every  day.  He  can  fight  any  boy  in  the  village." 

"  Hum,"  said  the  heir.    «  How  old  is  he?  " 

"  Fourteen." 

"  I  am  fifteen." 

Angele  smiled  like  a  seraph. 

"  Regardez-vous  done !  "  she  said.  "  He  could  twiddle 


38  The  Revellers 

you  round — so,"  and  she  spun  one  hand  over  the  other. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  him  try,"  snorted  the  aristocrat.  The 
opportunity  offered  itself  sooner  than  he  expected,  but 
the  purring  of  a  high-powered  car  coming  through  the 
village  street  caused  the  pedestrians  to  draw  aside. 
The  car,  a  new  and  expensive  one,  was  driven  by  a  chauf- 
feur, but  held  no  passengers. 

Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  gazed  after  it  reflectively. 

"  Well,  I  thought  I  knew  every  car  in  this  district," 
he  began. 

"  It  is  mine,  I  expect,"  announced  Mrs.  Saumarez. 
"  I've  ordered  one,  and  it  should  arrive  to-day.  I  need 
an  automobile  for  an  occasional  long  run.  For  potter- 
ing about  the  village  lanes,  I  may  buy  a  pony  cart." 

"  What  make  is  your  car?  "  inquired  the  Squire. 

"  A  Mercedes.  I'm  told  it  is  by  far  the  best  at  the 
price." 

"  It's  the  best  German  car,  of  course,  but  I  can 
hardly  admit  that  it  equals  the  French,  or  even  our  own 
leading  types." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  profess  to  understand  these  things.  I 
only  know  that  my  banker  advised  me  to  buy  none  other. 
He  explained  the  matter  simply  enough.  The  German 
manufacturers  want  to  get  into  the  trade  and  are  con- 
tent to  lose  money  for  a  year  or  so.  You  know  how 
pushful  they  are." 

Beckett-Smythe  saw  the  point  clearly.  He  was  even 
then  hesitating  between  a  Panhard  and  an  Austin.  He 
decided  to  wait  a  little  longer  and  ascertain  the  facts 
about  the  Mercedes.  A  month  later  he  purchased  one. 
Mrs.  Saumarez's  chauffeur,  a  smart  young  mechanic 
from  Bremen,  who  spoke  English  fluently,  demonstrate/! 


The  Seeds  of  Mischief  39 

that  the  buyer  was  given  more  than  his  money's  worth. 
The  amiable  Briton  wondered  how  such  things  could  be, 
but  was  content  to  benefit  personally.  He,  in  time, 
spread  the  story.  German  cars  enjoyed  a  year's  boom- 
let  in  that  part  of  Yorkshire.  With  nearly  every  car 
came  a  smart  young  chauffeur  mechanic.  Surely,  this 
was  wisdom  personified.  They  knew  the  engine,  could 
effect  nearly  all  road  repairs,  demanded  less  wages  than 
English  drivers,  and  were  always  civil  and  reliable. 

"  Go-ahead  people,  these  Germans !  "  was  the  general 
verdict. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  FEAST, 

AN  Elmsdale  Sunday  was  a  day  of  rest  for  man  and 
beast  alike.  There  could  be  no  manner  of  doubt  that 
the  horses  and  dogs  were  able  to  distinguish  the  Sab- 
bath from  the  workaday  week.  Prince,  six-year-old 
Cleveland  bay,  the  strongest  and  tallest  horse  in  the 
stable,  when  his  headstall  was  taken  off  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing, showed  his  canny  Yorkshire  sense  by  walking  past 
the  row  of  carts  and  pushing  open  a  rickety  gate  that 
led  to  a  tiny  meadow  kept  expressly  for  odd  grazing. 
After  him,  in  Indian  file,  went  five  other  horses ;  yet,  on 
any  other  day  in  the  week  they  would  stand  patiently 
in  the  big  yard,  waiting  to  be  led  away  singly  or  in 
pairs. 

Curly  and  Jim,  the  two  sheep-dogs — who  never  failed 
between  Monday  and  Saturday  to  yawn  and  stretch 
expectantly  by  the  side  of  John  Bolland's  sturdy  nag 
in  the  small  yard  near  the  house — on  the  seventh  day 
made  their  way  to  the  foreman's  cottage,  there  attend- 
ing his  leisure  for  a  scamper  over  the  breezy  moorland. 

For,  Sunday  or  weekday,  sheep  must  be  counted.  If 
any  are  missing,  the  almost  preternatural  intelligence 
of  the  collie  is  invoked  to  discover  the  hollow  in  which 
the  lost  ones  are  reposing  helplessly  on  their  backs. 
They  will  die  in  a  few  hours  if  not  placed  on  their  legs 

40 


The  Feast  41 

again.  Turn  over  unaided  they  cannot.  Man  or  dog 
must  help,  or  they  choke. 

Even  the  cocks  and  hens,  the  waddling  geese  and 
ducks,  the  huge  shorthorns,  which  are  the  pride  of  the 
village,  seemed  to  grasp  the  subtle  distinction  between 
life  on  a  quiet  day  and  the  well-filled  existence  of  the 
six  days  that  ^iad  gone  before.  At  least,  Martin 
thought  so ;  but  nfr  did  not  know  then  that  the  windows 
of  the  soul  let  in  imageries  that  depend  more  on  mood 
than  on  reality. 

Personally  he  hated  Sunday,  or  fancied  he  did.  He 
had  Sunday  clothes,  Sunday  boots,  Sunday  food,  a 
Sunday  face,  and  a  Sunday  conscience.  Things  were 
wrong  on  Sunday  that  were  right  during  the  rest  of  the 
week.  Though  the  sky  was  as  bright,  the  grass  as 
green,  the  birds  as  tuneful  on  that  day  as  on  others, 
he  was  supposed  to  undergo  a  metamorphosis  through- 
out all  the  weary  waking  hours.  His  troubles  often 
began  the  moment  he  quitted  his  bed.  As  his  "  best " 
clothes  and  boots  were  so  little  worn,  they  naturally 
maintained  a  spick-and-span  appearance  during  many 
months.  Hence,  he  was  given  a  fresh  assortment  about 
once  a  year,  and  the  outfit  possessed  three  distinct 
periods  of  use,  of  which  the  first  tortured  his  mind  and 
the  third  his  body. 

He  being  a  growing  lad,  the  coat  was  made  too  long 
in  the  sleeves,  the  trousers  too  long  in  the  legs,,  and  the 
boots  too  large.  At  the  beginning  of  this  epoch  he 
looked  and  felt  ridiculous.  Gradually,  the  effect  of  roast 
beef  and  suet  dumplings  brought  about  a  better  fit,  and 
during  four  months  of  the  year  he  was  fairly  smart  in 
appearance.  Then  there  came  an  ominous  shrinkage. 


42  The  Revellers 

His  wrists  dangled  below  the  coat  cuffs,  there  was  an 
ever-widening  rim  of  stocking  between  the  tops  of  the 
boots  and  the  trousers'  ends,  while  Mrs.  Bolland  began 
to  grumble  each  week  about  the  amount  of  darning  his 
stockings  required.  Moreover,  there  were  certain  quite 
insurmountable  difficulties  in  the  matter  of  buttons,  and 
it  was  with  a  joy  tempered  only  by  fear  of  the  grotesque 
that  he  beheld  the  "  best  "  suit  given  away  to  an  urchin 
several  sizes  smaller  than  himself. 

Happily  for  his  peace  of  mind,  the  Feast  occurred 
in  the  middle  stage  of  the  current  supply  of  raiment, 
so  he  was  as  presentable  as  a  peripatetic  tailor  who 
worked  in  the  house  a  fortnight  at  Christmas  could 
make  him. 

But  this  Sunday  dragged  terribly.  The  routine  of 
chapel  from  10 : 30  A.M.  to  noon,  Sunday-school  from 
3  P.M.  to  4 : 30  P.M.,  and  chapel  again  from  6 : 30  P.M. 
to  8  P.M.,  was  inevitable,  but  there  were  compensations 
in  the  whispered  confidences  of  Jim  Bates  and  Tommy 
Beadlam,  the  latter  nicknamed  "  White  Head,"  as  to 
the  nature  of  some  of  the  shows. 

The  new  conditions  brought  into  his  life  by  Angele 
Saumarez  troubled  him  far  more  than  he  could  measure. 
Her  mere  presence  in  the  secluded  village  carried  a 
breath  of  the  unknown.  Her  talk  was  of  London  and 
Paris,  of  parks,  theatres,  casinos,  luxurious  automobiles, 
deck-cabins,  and  Pullman  cars.  She  seemed  to  have 
lived  so  long  and  seen  so  much.  Yet  she  knew  very 
little.  Her  ceaseless  chatter  in  French  and  English, 
which  sounded  so  smart  at  first,  would  not  endure 
examination. 

She  had  read  nothing.    When  Martin  spoke  of  "  Rob- 


The  Feast  43 

inson  Crusoe  "  and  "  Ivanhoe,"  of  "  Treasure  Island  " 
and  "  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans  " — a  literary  medley 
devoured  for  incident  and  not  for  style — she  had  not 
even  heard  of  them,  but  produced  for  inspection  an 
astonishingly  rude  colored  cartoon,  the  French  com- 
ments on  which  she  translated  literally. 

He  was  a  boy  aglow  with  dim  but  fervent  ideals ;  she, 
a  girl  who  had  evidently  been  allowed  to  grow  up  almost 
wild  in  the  midst  of  fashionable  life  and  flippant  serv- 
ants, all  exigencies  being  fulfilled  when  she  spoke  nicely 
and  cleverly  and  wore  her  clothes  with  the  requisite 
chic.  The  two  were  as  opposed  in  essentials  as  an 
honest  English  apple  grown  in  a  wholesome  garden  and 
a  rare  orchid,  the  product  of  some  poisonous  equa- 
torial swamp. 

He  tried  to  interest  her  in  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
country  life.  She  met  him  more  than  halfway  by  put- 
ting embarrassing  questions  as  to  the  habits  of  animals. 
More  than  once  he  told  her  plainly  that  there  were  some 
things  little  girls  ought  not  to  know,  whereat  she  laughed 
scornfully,  but  switched  the  conversation  to  a  topic  on 
which  she  could  vex  him,  as  was  nearly  always  the  case 
in  her  references  to  Elsie  Herbert  or  John  Bolland's 
Bible  teaching. 

Yet  he  was  restless  and  irritable  because  he  did  not 
see  her  on  the  Sunday.  Mrs.  Saumarez,  it  is  true,  sped 
swiftly  through  the  village  about  three  o'clock,  and 
again  at  half-past  seven.  On  each  occasion  the  particu- 
lar chapel  affected  by  the  Bollands  was  resounding 
with  a  loud-voiced  hymn  or  echoing  the  vibrant  tones  of 
a  preacher  powerful  beyond  question  in  the  matter  of 
lungs  and  dogmatism.  The  whir  of  the  Mercedes  shut 


44  The  Revellers 

off  these  sounds;  but  Martin  heard  the  passing  of  the 
car  and  knew  that  Angele  was  in  it. 

It  was  a  novel  experience  for  the  Misses  Walker  to 
find  that  their  lodgers  recognized  no  difference  between 
Sunday  and  the  rest  of  the  week.  Mrs.  Saumarez  dined 
at  6 : 30  P.M.,  a  concession  of  an  hour  and  a  half  to 
rural  habits,  but  she  scouted  the  suggestion  that  a  cold 
meal  should  be  served  to  enable  the  "  girls  "  to  go  to 
church.  The  old  ladies  dared  not  quarrel  with  one  who 
paid  so  well.  They  remained  at  home  and  cooked  and 
served  the  dinner. 

As  Fran9oise,  to  a  large  extent,  waited  on  her  mis- 
tress, this  development  might  not  have  been  noticed  had 
not  Angele's  quick  eyes  seen  Miss  Emmy  Walker  carry- 
ing a  chicken  and  a  dish  of  French  beans  to  a  small 
table  in  the  hall. 

She  told  her  mother,  and  Mrs.  Saumarez  was  an- 
noyed. She  had  informed  Miss  Martha  that  if  the 
servants  required  a  "  night  out,"  the  addition  of  another 
domestic  to  the  household  at  her  expense  would  give 
them  a  good  deal  more  liberty,  but  this  ridiculous  "  Sun- 
day-evening "  notion  must  stop  forthwith. 

"  It  gets  on  my  nerves,  this  British  Sabbath,"  she 
exclaimed  peevishly.  "  In  London  I  entertain  largely 
on  a  Sunday  and  have  never  had  any  trouble.  Do  you 
mean  to  say  I  cannot  invite  guests  to  dinner  on  Sunday 
merely  to  humor  a  cook  or  a  housemaid?  Absurd! " 

Miss  Martha  promised  reform. 

"  Let  her  have  her  way,"  she  said  to  Miss  Emmy. 
"  Another  servant  will  have  nothing  to  do,  and  all  the 
girls  will  grow  lazy ;  but  we  must  keep  Mrs.  Saumarez 
as  long  as  we  can.  Oh,  if  she  would  only  remain  a  year, 


The  Feast  45 

we'd  be  out  of  debt,  with  the  house  practically  recar- 
peted  throughout ! " 

Unfortunately,  Mrs.  Saumarez's  nerves  were  upset. 
She  was  snappy  all  the  evening.  Fran9oise  tried  many 
expedients  to  soothe  her  mistress's  ruffled  feelings.  She 
brought  a  bundle  of  illustrated  papers,  a  parcel  of 
books,  the  scores  of  a  couple  of  operas,  even  a  gorgeous 
assortment  of  patterns  of  the  new  autumn  dress  fabrics, 
but  each  and  all  failed  to  attract.  For  some  reason  the 
preternaturally  acute  Angele  avoided  her  mother.  She 
seemed  to  be  afraid  of  her  when  in  this  mood.  The 
Misses  Walker,  seeing  the  anxiety  of  the  maid  and  the 
unwonted  retreat  of  the  child  to  bed  at  an  early  hour, 
were  miserable  at  the  thought  that  such  a  trivial  matter 
should  have  given  their  wealthy  tenant  cause  for  dire 
offense. 

So  Sunday  passed  irksomely,  and  everyone  was 
glad  when  the  next  morning  dawned  in  bright  cheer- 
fulness. 

From  an  early  hour  there  was  evidence  in  plenty  that 
the  Elmsdale  Feast  would  be  an  unqualified  success, 
though  shorn  of  many  of  its  ancient  glories. 

Time  was  when  the  village  used  to  indulge  in  a  week's 
saturnalia,  but  the  march  of  progress  had  affected  rural 
Yorkshire  even  so  long  ago  as  1906.  The  younger 
people  could  visit  Leeds,  York,  Scarborough,  or  Whitby 
by  Saturday  afternoon  "  trips  " — special  excursion 
trains  run  at  cheap  rates — while  "  week-ends  "  in  Lon- 
don were  not  unknown  luxuries,  and  these  frequent  op- 
portunities for  change  of  scene  and  recreation  had 
lessened  the  scope  of  the  annual  revels.  Still,  the  trad- 
ing instinct  kept  alive  the  commercial  side  of  the  Feast ; 


46  The  Revellers 

the  splendid  hospitality  of  the  north  country  asserted 
itself;  church  and  chapels  seized  the  chance  of  reaching 
enlarged  congregations,  and  a  number  of  itinerant 
showmen  regarded  Elmsdale  as  a  fixture  in  the  yearly 
round. 

So,  on  the  Monday,  every  neighboring  village  and 
moorland  hamlet  poured  in  its  quota.  The  people  came 
on  foot  from  the  railway  station,  distant  nearly  two 
miles,  on  horseback,  in  every  sort  of  conveyance.  The 
roads  were  alive  with  cattle,  sheep,  and  pigs.  The  pro- 
gramme mapped  out  bore  a  general  resemblance  on  each 
of  the  four  days.  The  morning  was  devoted  to  business, 
the  afternoon  and  evening  to  religion  or  pleasure. 

The  proceedings  opened  with  a  horse  fair.  An  agent 
of  the  German  Government  snapped  up  every  Cleveland 
bay  offered  for  sale.  George  Pickering,  in  sporting 
garb,  and  smoking  a  big  cigar,  was  an  early  arrival. 
He  bid  vainly  for  a  couple  of  mares  which  he  needed  to 
complete  his  stud.  Germany  wanted  them  more 
urgently. 

A  splendid  mare,  the  property  of  John  Holland,  was 
put  up  for  auction.  The  auctioneer  read  her  pedigree, 
and  proved  its  authenticity  by  reference  to  the  Stud 
Book. 

"  Is  she  in  foal?  "  asked  Pickering,  and  a  laugh  went 
around.  Bolland  scowled  blackly.  If  a  look  could  have 
slain  the  younger  man  he  would  assuredly  have  fallen 
dead. 

The  bidding  commenced  at  £40  and  rose  rapidly 
to  £60. 

Then  Pickering  lost  his  temper.  The  agent  for  Ger- 
many was  too  pertinacious. 


The  Feast  47 

"  Seventy,"  he  shouted,  though  the  bids  hitherto  had 
mounted  by  single  sovereigns. 

"  Seventy-one,"  said  the  agent. 

"  Eighty !  "  roared  Pickering. 

"  Eighty-one !  "  nodded  the  agent. 

"  The  reserve  is  off,"  interposed  the  auctioneer,  and 
again  the  surrounding  farmers  guffawed,  as  the  mare 
had  already  gone  to  twenty  pounds  beyond  her  value. 

Pickering  swallowed  his  rage  with  an  effort.  He 
turned  to  Bolland. 

"  That's  an  offset  for  my  hard  words  the  other  day," 
he  said. 

But  the  farmer  thrust  aside  the  proffered  olive 
branch. 

"  Once  a  fule,  always  a  fule,"  he  growled.  Pickering, 
though  anything  but  a  fool  in  business,  took  the  un- 
gracious remark  pleasantly  enough. 

"  He  ought  to  sing  a  rare  hymn  this  afternoon,"  he 
cried.  "  I've  put  a  score  of  extra  sovereigns  in  his 
pocket,  and  he  doesn't  even  say  *  Thank  you.'  Well, 
it's  the  way  of  the  world.  Who's  dry  ?  " 

This  invitation  caused  an  adj  ournment  to  the  "  Black 
Lion."  The  auctioneer  knew  his  clients. 

Pickering's  allusion  to  the  hymn  was  not  made  with- 
out knowledge.  At  three  o'clock,  on  a  part  of  the  green 
farthest  removed  from  the  thronged  stalls  and  the  blare 
of  a  steam-driven  organ,  Bolland  and  a  few  other 
earnest  spirits  surrounded  the  stentorian  preacher  and 
held  an  open-air  service.  They  selected  tunes  which 
everybody  knew  and,  as  a  result,  soon  attracted  a  crowd 
of  older  people,  some  of  whom  brought  their  children, 
Martin,  of  course,  was  in  the  gathering. 


48  The  Revellers 

Meanwhile,  along  the  line  of  booths,  a  couple  of 
leather-lunged  men  were  singing  old-time  ballads,  deal- 
ing for  the  most  part  with  sporting  incidents.  They 
soon  became  the  centers  of  two  packed  audiences,  mainly 
young  men  and  boys,  but  containing  more  than  a  sprink- 
ling of  girls.  The  ditties  were  couched  in  "  broad  York- 
shire " — sometimes  too  broad  for  modern  taste.  When- 
ever a  particularly  crude  stanza  was  bawled  forth  a 
chuckle  would  run  through  the  audience,  and  coppers 
in  plenty  were  forthcoming  for  printed  copies  of  the 
song,  which,  however,  usually  fell  short  of  the  blunt 
phraseology  of  the  original.  The  raucous  ballad  singers 
took  risks  feared  by  the  printer. 

Mrs.  Saumarez,  leading  Angele  by  the  hand,  thought 
she  would  like  to  hear  one  of  these  rustic  melodies,  and 
halted.  Instantly  the  vendor  changed  his  cue.  The 
lady  might  be  the  wife  of  a  magistrate.  Once  he  got 
fourteen  days  as  a  rogue  and  a  vagabond  at  the  instance 
of  just  such  another  interested  spectator,  who  put  the 
police  in  action. 

Quickly  surfeited  by  the  only  half-understood  humor 
of  a  song  describing  the  sale  of  a  dead  horse,  she  wan- 
dered on,  and  soon  came  across  the  preacher  and  his 
lay  helpers. 

To  her  surprise  she  saw  John  Bolland  standing  bare- 
headed in  the  front  rank,  and  with  him  Martin.  She  had 
never  pictured  the  keen-eyed,  crusty  old  farmer  in  this 
guise.  It  amused  her.  The  minister  began  to  offer  up 
a  prayer.  The  men  hid  their  faces  in  their  hats,  the 
women  bowed  reverently,  and  fervent  ejaculations 
punctuated  each  pause  in  the  preacher's  appeal. 

"I  do  believe!" 


The  Feast  49 

*'  Amen !     Amen !  " 

"  Spare  us,  O  Lord !  " 

Mrs.  Saumarez  stared  at  the  gathering  with  real 
wonderment. 

"  C'est  incroyable !  "  she  murmured. 

"  What  are  they  doing,  mamma?  "  cried  Angele,  try- 
ing to  guess  why  Martin  had  buried  his  eyes  in  his  cap. 

"  They  are  praying,  dearest.  It  reminds  one  of  the 
Covenanters.  It  really  is  very  touching." 

"  Who  were  the  Covenanters  ?  " 

"  When  you  are  older,  ma  belle,  you  will  read  of  them 
in  history." 

That  was  Mrs.  Saumarez's  way.  She  treated  her 
daughter's  education  as  a  matter  for  governesses  whom 
she  did  not  employ  and  masters  to  whose  control  Angele 
would  probably  never  be  entrusted. 

The  two  entered  the  White  House.  There  they  found 
Mrs.  Bolland,  radiant  in  a  black  silk  dress,  a  bonnet 
trimmed  with  huge  roses,  and  a  velvet  dolman,  the  wings 
of  which  were  thrown  back  over  her  portly  shoulders  to 
permit  her  the  better  to  press  all  comers  to  partake  of 
her  hospitality.  , 

Several  women  and  one  or  two  men  were  seated  at  the 
big  table,  while  people  were  coming  and  going  con- 
stantly. 

It  flustered  and  gratified  Mrs.  Bolland  not  a  little 
to  receive  such  a  distinguished  visitor. 

"  Eh,  my  leddy,"  she  cried,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  ye. 
Will  ye  tek  a  chair?  And  t'  young  leddy,  too?  Will 
ye  hev  a  glass  o'  wine  ?  " 

This  was  the  recognized  formula.  There  was  a  de- 
canter of  port  wine  on  the  sideboard,  but  most  of  the 


50  The  Revellers 

visitors  partook  of  tea  or  beer.  One  of  the  men  drew 
himself  a  foaming  tankard  from  a  barrel  in  the 
corner. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  smiled  wistfully. 

"  No  wine,  thank  you,"  she  said ;  "  but  that  beer 
looks  very  nice.  I'll  have  some,  if  I  may." 

Not  until  that  moment  did  Mrs.  Bolland  remember 
that  her  guest  was  a  reputed  teetotaller.  So,  then,  Mrs. 
Atkinson,  proprietress  of  the  "  Black  Lion,"  was  mis- 
taken. 

"  That  ye  may,  an*  welcome,"  she  said  in  her  hearty 
way. 

Angele  murmured  something  in  French,  but  her 
mother  gave  a  curt  answer,  and  the  child  subsided,  be- 
ing, perhaps,  interested  by  the  evident  amazement  and 
admiration  she  evoked  among  the  country  people.  To- 
day, Angele  was  dressed  in  a  painted  muslin,  with  hat 
and  sash  of  the  same  material,  long  black  silk  stockings, 
and  patent-leather  shoes.  She  looked  elegantly  old- 
fashioned,  and  might  have  walked  bodily  out  of  one  of 
Caran  d'Ache's  sketches  of  French  society. 

Suddenly  she  bounced  up  like  an  india-rubber  ball. 

"  Tra  la ! "  she  cried.    "  Via  mon  cher  Martin !  " 

The  prayer  meeting  had  ended,  and  Martin  was  speed- 
ing home,  well  knowing  who  had  arrived  there. 

Angele  ran  to  meet  him. 

"  She's  a  rale  fairy,"  whispered  Mrs.  Summersgill, 
mistress  of  the  Dale  End  Farm.  "  She's  rigged  out  like 
a  pet  doll." 

"  Ay,"  agreed  her  neighbor.  "  D'ye  ken  wheer  they 
coom  frae?  " 

"  Frae  Lunnon,   I   reckon.     They're  staying  wi'  t* 


The  Feast  51 

Miss  Walkers.  That's  t'  muther,  a  Mrs.  Saumarez, 
they  call  her,  but  they  say  she's  a  Jarman  baroness." 

"  Well,  bless  her  heart,  she  hez  a  rare  swallow  for  a 
gill  o'  ale." 

This  was  perfectly  true.  The  lady  had  emptied  her 
glass  with  real  gusto. 

"  I  was  so  hot  and  tired,"  she  said,  with  an  apologetic 
smile  at  her  hostess.  "  Now,  I  can  admire  your  wonder- 
ful store  of  good  things  to  eat,"  and  she  focussed  the 
display  through  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses. 

Truly,  the  broad  kitchen  table  presented  a  spectacle 
that  would  kill  a  dyspeptic.  A  cold  sirloin,  a  portly 
ham,  two  pairs  of  chickens,  three  brace  of  grouse — 
these  solids  were  mere  garnishings  to  dishes  piled  with 
currant  cakes,  currant  loaves  and  plain  bread  cut  and 
buttered,  jam  turnovers,  open  tarts  of  many  varieties, 
"  fat  rascals,"  Queen  cakes,  sponge  cakes — battalions 
and  army  corps  of  all  the  sweet  and  toothsome  articles 
known  to  the  culinary  skill  of  the  North. 

"  I'm  feared,  my  leddy,  they  won't  suit  your  taste," 
began  Mrs.  Bolland,  but  the  other  broke  in  eagerly : 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that !  They  look  so  good,  so  whole- 
some, so  different  from  the  French  cooking  we  weary  of 
in  town.  If  I  were  not  afraid  of  spoiling  my  dinner 
and  earning  a  scolding  from  Fransoise  I  would  certainly 
ask  for  some  of  that  cold  beef  and  a  slice  of  bread  and 
butter." 

"  Tek  my  advice,  ma'am,  an'  eat  while  ye're  in  t' 
humor,"  cried  Mrs.  Bolland,  instantly  helping  her  guest 
to  the  eatables  named. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  laughed  delightedly  and  peeled  off  a 
pair  of  white  kid  gloves.  She  ate  a  little  of  the  meat 


52  The  Revellers 

and  crumbled  a  slice  of  bread.  Mrs.  Holland  refilled  the 
glass  with  beer. 

Then  the  lady  made  herself  generally  popular  by  ask- 
ing questions.  Did  they  use  lard  or  butter  in  the 
pastry?  How  was  the  sponge  cake  made  so  light? 
What  a  curious  custom  it  was  to  put  currants  into  plain 
dough;  she  had  never  seen  it  done  before.  Were  the 
servants  able  to  do  these  things,  or  had  they  to  be 
taught  by  the  mistress  of  the  house?  She  amused  the 
women  by  telling  of  the  airs  and  graces  of  London 
domestics,  and  evoked  a  feeling  akin  to  horror  by 
relating  the  items  of  the  weekly  bills  in  her  town 
house. 

"  Seven  pund  o'  beacan  for  breakfast  i'  t'  kitchen !  " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Summersgill.  "  Whea  ivver  heerd  tell 
o'  sike  waste?  " 

"  Eh,  ma'am,"  cried  another,  "  but  ye  mun  addle  yer 
money  aisy  t'  let  'em  carry  on  that  gait." 

Martin,  who  found  Angele  in  her  most  charming 
mood — unconsciously  pleased,  too,  that  her  costume  was 
not  so  outre  as  to  run  any  risk  of  caustic  comment  by 
strangers — came  in  and  asked  if  he  might  take  her 
along  the  row  of  stalls.  Mrs.  Bolland  had  given  him  a 
shilling  that  morning,  and  he  resolved  magnanimously 
to  let  the  shooting  gallery  wait ;  Angele  should  be  treated 
to  a  shilling's  worth  of  aught  she  fancied. 

But  Mrs.  Saumarez  rose. 

"  Your  mother  will  kill  me  with  kindness,  Martin,  if  I 
remain  longer,"  she  said.  "  Take  me,  too,  and  we'll  see 
if  the  fair  contains  any  toys." 

She  emptied  the  second  glass  of  ale,  drew  on  her 
gloves?  bade  the  company  farewell  with  as  much  courtesy 


The  Feast  53 

as  if  they  were  so  many  countesses,  and  walked  away 
with  the  youngsters. 

At  one  stall  she  bought  Martin  a  pneumatic  gun,  a 
powerful  toy  which  the  dealer  never  expected  to  sell  in 
that  locality.  At  another  she  would  have  purchased  a 
doll  for  Angele,  but  the  child  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  declared  that  she  would  greatly  prefer  to  ride  on 
the  roundabouts  with  Martin.  Mrs.  Saumarez  agreed 
instantly,  and  the  pair  mounted  the  hobby-horses. 

Among  the  children  who  watched  them  enviously  were 
Jim  Bates  and  Evelyn  Atkinson.  When  the  steam  organ 
was  in  full  blast  and  the  horses  were  flying  round  at  a 
merry  pace,  Mrs.  Saumarez  bent  over  Jim  Bates  and 
placed  half  a  sovereign  in  his  hand. 

"  Go  to  the  '  Black  Lion,'  "  she  said,  "  and  bring  me 
a  bottle  of  the  best  brandy.  See  that  it  is  wrapped  in 
paper.  I  do  not  care  to  go  myself  to  a  place  where 
there  are  so  many  men." 

Jim  darted  off.  The  roundabout  slackened  speed 
and  stopped,  but  Mrs.  Saumarez  ordered  another  ride. 
The  whirl  had  begun  again  when  Bates  returned  with  a 
parcel. 

"  It  was  four  shillin's,  ma'am,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,  very  much.     Keep  the  change." 

Even  Evelyn  Atkinson  was  so  awed  by  the  magnitude 
of  the  tip  that  she  forgot  for  a  moment  to  glue  her  eyes 
on  Angele  and  Martin. 

But  Angele,  wildly  elated  though  she  was  with  the 
sensation  of  flight,  and  seated  astride  like  a  boy,  until 
the  tops  of  her  stockings  were  exposed  to  view,  did  not 
fail  to  notice  the  conclusion  of  Jim  Bates's  errand. 

"  Mamma  will  be  ill  to-night,"  she  screamed  in  Mar- 


54  The  Revellers 

tin's  ear.  "  Fran9oise  will  be  busy  waiting  on  her.  I'll 
come  out  again  at  eight  o'clock." 

"  You  must  not,"  shouted  the  boy.  "  It  will  be  very 
rough  here  then." 

"  C'la  va — I  mean,  I  know  that  quite  well.  It'll  be 
all  the  more  jolly.  Meet  me  at  the  gate.  I'll  bring 
plenty  of  money." 

"  I  can't,"  protested  Martin. 

"You  must!" 

"  But  I'm  supposed  to  be  home  myself  at  eight 
o'clock." 

"  If  you  don't  come,  I'll  find  some  other  boy.  Frank 
Beckett-Smythe  said  he  would  try  and  turn  up  every 
evening,  in  case  I  got  a  chance  to  sneak  out." 

"  All  right.     I'll  be  there." 

Martin  intended  to  hurry  her  through  the  fair  and 
take  her  home  again.  If  he  received  a  "  hiding  "  for 
being  late,  he  would  put  up  with  it.  In  any  case,  the 
squire's  eldest  son  could  not  be  allowed  to  steal  his 
wilful  playmate  without  a  struggle.  Probably  Adam 
reasoned  along  similar  lines  when  Eve  first  offered  him 
an  apple.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  never  occurred  to 
Martin  that  the  third  chapter  of  Genesis  could  have  the 
remotest  bearing  on  the  night's  frolic. 


CHAPTER  V 
"  IT  IS  THE  FIRST  STEP  THAT  COUNTS  " 

MRS.  SAUMAREZ  and  Angele  returned  to  The  Elms, 
but  Martin  had  to  forego  accompanying  them.  He  knew 
that — with  Bible  opened  at  the  Third  Book  of  Kings — 
John  Bolland  was  waiting  in  a  bedroom,  every  down- 
stairs apartment  being  crowded. 

He  ran  all  the  way  along  the  village  street  and  darted 
upstairs,  striving  desperately  to  avoid  even  the  sem- 
blance of  undue  haste.  Bolland  was  thumbing  the 
book  impatiently.  He  frowned  over  his  spectacles. 

"  Why  are  ye  late  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Mrs.  Saumarez  asked  me  to  walk  with  her  through 
the  village,"  answered  Martin  truthfully. 

"  Ay.    T'  wife  telt  me  she  was  here." 

The  explanation  served,  and  Martin  breathed  more 
freely.  The  reading  commenced: 

"  Now  king  David  was  old  and  stricken  in  years ;  and 
they  covered  him  with  clothes,  but  he  gat  no  heat. 

"  Wherefore  his  servants  said  unto  him,  Let  there  be 
sought  for  my  lord  the  king  a  young  virgin :  and  let  her 
stand  before  the  king,  and  let  her  cherish  him,  and  let 
her  lie  in  thy  bosom,  that  my  lord  the  king  may  get 
heat." 

Martin,  with  his  mind  in  a  tumult  on  account  of  the 
threatened  escapade,  did  not  care  a  pin  what  method 

55 


56  The  Revellers 

was  adopted  to  restore  the  feeble  circulation  of  the 
withered  King  so  long  as  the  lesson  passed  off  satis- 
factorily. 

With  rare  self-control,  he  bent  over  the,  to  him,  un- 
meaning page,  and  acquitted  himself  so  well  in  the  par- 
rot repetition  which  he  knew  would  be  pleasing  that 
he  ventured  to  say: 

"  May  I  stay  out  a  little  later  to-night,  sir?  " 

"What  for?  You're  better  i'  bed  than  gapin'  at 
shows  an'  listenin'  te  drunken  men." 

"  I  only  ask  because — because  I'm  told  that  Mrs. 
Saumarez's  little  girl  means  to  see  the  fair  by  night,  and 
she — er — would  like  me  to  be  with  her." 

John  Bolland  laughed  dryly. 

"  Mrs.  Saumarez'll  soon  hev  more'n  eneuf  on't,"  he 
said.  "  Ay,  lad,  ye  can  stay  wi'  her,  if  that's  all." 

Martin  never,  under  any  circumstances,  told  a  down- 
right lie,  but  he  feared  that  this  was  sailing  rather  too 
near  the  wind  to  be  honest.  The  nature  of  Angele's 
statement  was  so  nebulous.  He  could  hardly  explain 
outright  that  Mrs.  Saumarez  was  not  coming — that 
Angele  alone  would  be  the  sightseer.  So  he  flushed,  and 
felt  that  he  was  obtaining  the  required  permission  by 
false  pretense.  He  could  have  pulled  Angele's  pretty 
ears  for  placing  him  in  such  a  dilemma,  but  with  a  man 
so  utterly  unsympathetic  as  Bolland  it  was  impossible 
to  be  quite  candid. 

He  had  clear  ideas  of  right  and  wrong.  He  knew  it 
was  wrong  for  Angele  to  come  out  unattended  and  mix 
in  the  scene  of  rowdyism  which  the  village  would  present 
until  midnight.  If  she  really  could  succeed  in  leaving  The 
Elms  unnoticed,  the  most  effectual  way  to  stop  her  was 


"  It  is  the  First  Step  That  Counts  "      57 

to  go  now  to  her  mother  or  to  one  of  the  Misses  Walker 
and  report  her  intention.  But  this,  according  to  the 
boy's  code  of  honor,  was  to  play  the  sneak,  than  which 
there  is  no  worse  crime  in  the  calendar.  No.  He  would 
look  after  her  himself.  There  was  a  spice  of  adventure, 
too,  in  acting  as  the  chosen  squire  of  this  sprightly 
damsel.  Strong-minded  as  he  was,  and  resolute  beyond 
his  years,  Angele's  wilfulness,  her  quick  tongue,  the 
diablerie  of  her  glance,  the  witchery  of  her  elegant  little 
person,  captivated  heart  and  brain,  and  benumbed  the 
inchoate  murmurings  of  conscience. 

Oddly  enough,  he  often  found  himself  comparing  her 
with  Elsie  Herbert,  a  girl  with  whom  he  had  never 
exchanged  a  word,  and  Angele  Saumarez  invariably  fig- 
ured badly  in  the  comparison.  The  boy  did  not  know 
then  that  he  must  become  a  man,  perhaps  soured  of  life, 
bitter  with  experience,  before  he  would  understand  the 
difference  between  respect  and  fascination. 

With  housewife  prudence,  Mrs.  Bolland  hailed  him 
as  he  was  passing  through  the  back  kitchen. 

"  Noo,  then,  Martin,  don't  ye  go  racketin'  about  too 
much  in  your  best  clothes.  And  mind  your  straw  hat 
isn't  blown  off  if  ye  go  on  one  o'  them  whirligigs." 

"  All  right,  mother,"  he  said  cheerfully,  and  was  gone 
in  a  flash. 

Two  hours  must  elapse  before  Angele  could  appear. 
Jim  Bates,  who  bore  no  malice,  stood  treat  in  ginger- 
bread and  lemonade  out  of  the  largesse  bestowed  by 
Mrs.  Saumarez.  Martin,  carried  away  by  sight  of  a 
champion  boxer  who  offered  a  sovereign  to  any  local 
man  under  twelve  stone  who  stood  up  to  him  for  three 
two-minute  rounds,  spent  sixpence  in  securing  seats 


58  The  Revellers 

for  himself  and  Jim  when  the  gage  of  combat  was 
thrown  down  by  his  gamekeeper  friend. 

There  was  a  furious  fight  with  four-ounce  gloves. 
The  showman  discovered  quickly  that  Velveteens  "  knew 
a  bit."  Repeated  attempts  to  "  out "  him  with  "  the 
right  "  on  the  "  point  "  resulted  in  heavy  "  counters  " 
on  the  ribs,  and  a  terrific  uppercut  failed  because  of  the 
keeper's  quick  sight. 

The  proprietor  of  the  booth,  who  acted  as  timekeeper, 
gave  every  favor  to  his  henchman,  but  at  the  end  of  the 
third  round  the  professional  was  more  blown  than  the 
amateur.  The  sovereign  was  handed  over  with  apparent 
good  will,  both  showmen  realizing  that  it  might  be  money 
well  spent.  And  it  was,  as  the  black  eyes  and  swollen 
lips  among  the  would-be  pugilists  of  Elmsdale  testified 
for  many  days  thereafter. 

Martin,  who  had  never  before  seen  a  real  boxing 
match,  was  entranced.  With  a  troop  of  boys  he  accom- 
panied the  two  combatants  to  the  door  of  the  "  Black 
Lion,"  where  a  fair  proportion  of  the  sovereign  was 
soon  converted  into  beer. 

George  Pickering  had  witnessed  the  contest.  Gen- 
erous to  a  fault,  he  started  a  purse  to  be  fought  for  in 
rounds  inside  the  booth.  Wanting  a  pencil  and  paper, 
he  ran  upstairs  to  his  room — he  had  resolved  to  stay  at 
the  inn  for  a  couple  of  nights — and  encountered  Kitty 
Thwaites  on  the  stairs. 

She  carried  a  laden  tray,  so  he  slipped  an  arm  around 
her  waist,  and  she  was  powerless  to  prevent  him  from 
kissing  her  unless  she  dropped  the  tray  or  risked  up- 
setting its  contents.  She  had  no  intention  of  doing 
either  of  these  things. 


'*  It  is  the  First  Step  That  Counts })      59 

"  Oh,  go  on,  do !  "  she  cried,  not  averting  her  face 
too  much. 

He  whispered  something. 

"  Not  me !  "  she  giggled.  "  Besides,  I  won't  have  a 
minnit  to  spare  till  closin'  time." 

Pickering  hugged  her  again.  She  descended  the 
stairs,  laughing  and  very  red. 

The  boys  heard  something  of  the  details  of  the  pro- 
posed Elmsdale  championship  boxing  competition. 
Entries  were  pouring  in,  there  being  no  fee.  George 
Pickering  was  appointed  referee,  and  the  professional 
named  as  judge.  The  first  round  would  be  fought  at 
3  P.M.  next  day. 

The  time  passed  more  quickly  than  Martin  expected; 
as  for  his  money,  it  simply  melted.  Tenpence  out  of 
the  shilling  had  vanished  before  he  realized  how  precious 
little  remained  wherewith  to  entertain  Angele.  She  said 
she  would  have  "  plenty  of  money,"  but  he  imagined  that 
a  walk  through  the  fair  and  a  ride  on  the  roundabout 
would  satisfy  her.  Not  even  at  fourteen  does  the  male 
understand  the  female  of  twelve. 

A  few  minutes  before  eight  he  escaped  from  his  com- 
panions and  strolled  toward  The  Elms.  The  house  was 
not  like  the  suburban  villa  which  stands  in  the  center 
of  a  row  and  proudly  styles  itself  Oakdene.  It  was 
hidden  in  a  cluster  of  lordly  elms,  and  already  the  day 
was  so  far  spent  that  the  entrance  gate  was  invisible 
save  at  a  few  yards'  distance. 

The  nearest  railway  station  was  situated  two  miles 
along  this  very  road.  A  number  of  slow-moving  coun- 
try people  were  sauntering  to  the  station,  where  the 
north  train  was  due  at  9 :  05  P.M.  Another  train,  that 


60  The  Revellers 

from  the  south,  arrived  at  9 : 20,  and  would  be  the  last 
that  night.  A  full  moon  was  rising,  but  her  glories 
were  hidden  by  the  distant  hills.  There  was  no  wind ; 
the  weather  was  fine  and  settled.  The  Elmsdale  Feast 
was  lucky  in  its  dates. 

Martin  waited  near  the  gate  and  heard  the  church 
clock  chime  the  hour.  Two  boys  on  bicycles  came  flying 
toward  the  village.  They  were  the  Beckett-Smythes. 
They  slackened  pace  as  they  neared  The  Elms. 

"Wonder  if  she'll  get  out  to-night?"  said  Ernest; 
the  younger. 

"  There's  no  use  waiting  here.  She  said  she'd  dodge 
out  one  evening  for  certain.  If  she's  not  in  the  village, 
we'd  better  skip  back  before  we're  missed,"  said  the  heir. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right.  Pater  thinks  we're  in  the 
grounds,  and  there  won't  be  any  bother  if  we  show  up 
at  nine." 

They  rode  on.  The  quarter-hour  chimed,  and  Martin 
became  impatient. 

"  She  was  humbugging  me,  as  usual,"  he  reflected. 
"  Well,  this  time  I'm  pleased." 

An  eager  voice  whispered: 

"  Hold  the  gate !  It'll  rattle  when  I  climb  over. 
They've  not  heard  me.  I  crept  here  on  the  grass." 

Angele  had  changed  her  dress  to  a  dark-blue  serge 
and  sailor  hat.  This  was  decidedly  thoughtful.  In  her 
day  attire  she  must  have  attracted  a  great  deal  of  notice. 
Now,  in  the  dark,  neither  the  excellence  of  her  clothing 
nor  the  elegance  of  her  carriage  would  differentiate  her 
too  markedly  from  the  village  girls. 

She  was  breathless  with  haste,  but  her  tongue  rattled 
on  rapidly. 


"It  is  the  First  Step  That  Counts"      61 

"  Mamma  is  ill.  I  knew  she  would  be.  I  told 
Fran9oise  I  had  a  headache,  and  went  to  bed.  Then  I 
crept  downstairs  again.  Miss  Walker  nearly  caught 
me,  but  she's  so  upset  that  she  never  saw  me.  As  for 
Fritz,  if  I  meet  him — poof !  " 

"What's  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Saumarez?"  asked 
Martin. 

"  Trop  de  cognac,  mon  cheri." 

"What's  that?" 

"  It  means  a  '  bit  wobbly,  my  dear.'  " 

"Is  her  head  bad?" 

"  Yes.  It  will  be  for  a  week.  But  never  mind 
mamma.  She'll  be  all  right,  with  Fran9oise  to  look  after 
her.  Here!  You  pay  for  everything.  There's  ten 
shillings  in  silver.  I  have  a  sovereign  in  my  stocking, 
if  we  want  it." 

They  were  hurrying  toward  the  distant  medley  of 
sound.  Flaring  naptha  lamps  gave  the  village  street 
a  Rembrandt  effect.  Love-making  couples,  with  arms 
entwined,  were  coming  away  from  the  glare  of  the 
booths.  Their  forms  cast  long  shadows  on  the  white 
road. 

"  Ten  shillings !  "  gasped  Martin.  "  Whatever  do 
we  want  with  ten  shillings  ?  " 

"  To  enjoy  ourselves,  you  silly.  You  can't  have  any 
fun  without  money.  Why,  when  mamma  dines  at  the 
Savoy  and  takes  a  party  to  the  theater  afterwards,  it 
costs  her  as  many  pounds.  I  know,  because  I've  seen 
the  checks." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  We  can't  spend 
ten  shillings  here." 

"Oh,  can't  we?    You  leave  that  to  me.    Mais,  voyez- 


62  The  Revellers 

vous,  imbecile,  are  you  going  to  be  nasty?  "  She  halted 
and  stamped  an  angry  foot. 

"  No,  I'm  not ;  but " 

"  Then  come  on,  stupid.     I'm  late  as  it  is." 

"  The  stalls  remain  open  until  eleven." 

"  Magnifique !  What  a  row  there'll  be  if  I  have  to 
knock  to  get  in ! " 

Martin  held  his  tongue.  He  resolved  privately  that 
Angele  should  be  home  at  nine,  at  latest,  if  he  dragged 
her  thither  by  main  force.  The  affair  promised  diffi- 
culties. She  was  so  intractable  that  a  serious  quarrel 
would  result.  Well,  he  could  not  help  it.  Better  a  last- 
ing break  than  the  wild  hubbub  that  would  spring  up 
if  they  both  remained  out  till  the  heinous  hour  she 
contemplated. 

In  the  village  they  encountered  Jim  Bates  and  Eve- 
lyn Atkinson,  surrounded  by  seven  or  eight  boys  and 
girls,  for  Jim  was  disposing  rapidly  of  his  six  shil- 
lings, and  Evelyn  bestowed  favor  on  him  for  the 
nonce. 

"  Hello !  here's  Martin,"  whooped  Bates.  "  I  thowt 
ye'd  gone  yam  (home).  Where  hev  ye " 

Jim's  eloquence  died  away  abruptly.  He  caught 
sight  of  Angele  and  was  abashed.  Not  so  Evelyn. 

"  Martin's  been  to  fetch  his  sweetheart,"  she  said 
maliciously. 

Angele  simpered  sufficiently  to  annoy  Evelyn.  Then 
she  laughed  agreement. 

"  Yes.  And  won't  we  have  a  time !  Come  on !  Every- 
body have  a  ride." 

She  sprang  toward  the  horses.  Martin  alone  fol- 
lowed. 


"  It  is  the  First  Step  That  Counts  "      63 

"  Come  on !  "  she  screamed.  "  Martin  will  pay  for 
the  lot.  He  has  heaps  of  money." 

No  second  invitation  was  needed.  Several  times  the 
whole  party  swung  round  with  lively  yelling.  From  the 
roundabouts  they  went  to  the  swings;  from  the  swings 
to  the  cocoanut  shies.  Here  they  were  joined  by  the 
Beckett-Smythes,  who  endeavored  promptly  to  assume 
the  leadership. 

Martin's  blood  was  fired  by  the  contest.  He  was 
essentially  a  boy  foredoomed  to  dominate  his  fellows, 
whether  for  good  or  evil.  He  pitched  restraint  to  the 
winds.  He  could  throw  better  than  either  of  the  young 
aristocrats;  he  could  shoot  straighter  at  the  galleries; 
he  could  describe  the  heroic  combat  between  the  boxer 
and  Velveteens ;  he  would  swing  Angele  higher  than  any, 
until  they  looked  over  the  cross-bar  after  each  giddy 
swirl. 

The  Beckett-Smythes  kept  pace  with  him  only  in 
expenditure,  Jim  Bates  being  quickly  drained,  and  even 
they  wondered  how  long  the  village  lad  could  last. 

The  ten  shillings  were  soon  dissipated. 

"  I  want  that  sovereign,"  he  shouted,  when  Angele  and 
he  were  riding  together  again  on  the  hobby-horses. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  she  screamed.  She  turned  up  her 
dress  to  extricate  the  money  from  a  fold  of  her  stock- 
ing. The  light  flashed  on  her  white  skin,  and  Frank 
Beckett-Smythe,  who  rode  behind  with  one  of  the  Atkin- 
son girls,  wondered  what  she  was  doing. 

She  bent  over  Martin  and  whispered : 

"  There  are  two!    Keep  the  fun  going!  " 

The  young  spark  in  the  rear  thought  that  she,  was 
kissing  Martin;  he  was  wild  with  jealousy.  At  the  next 


64  The  Revellers 

show — that  of  a  woman  grossly  fat,  who  allowed  the 
gapers  to  pinch  her  leg  at  a  penny  a  pinch — he  paid 
with  his  last  half-crown.  When  they  went  to  refresh 
themselves  on  ginger-beer,  Martin  produced  a  sovereign. 
The  woman  who  owned  the  stall  bit  it,  surveyed  him  sus- 
piciously, and  tried  to  swindle  him  in  the  change.  She 
failed  badly. 

"  Eleven  bottles  at  twopence  and  eleven  cakes  at  a 
penny  make  two-and-nine.  I  want  two  more  shillings, 
please,"  he  said  coolly. 

"  Be  aff  wid  ye !  I  gev  ye  seventeen  and  thruppence. 
If  ye  thry  anny  uv  yer  tricks  an  me  I'll  be  afther  askin' 
where  ye  got  the  pound." 

"  Give  me  two  more  shillings,  or  I'll  call  the  police." 

Mrs.  Maguire  was  beaten;  she  paid  up. 

The  crowd  left  her,  with  cries  of  "  Irish  Molly !  " 
"Where's  Mick?"  and  even  coarser  expressions. 
Angele  screamed  at  her: 

"  Why  don't  you  stick  to  ginger-beer  ?  You're 
muzzy." 

The  taunt  stung,  and  the  old  Irishwoman  cursed  her 
tormentor  as  a  black-eyed  little  witch. 

Angele,  seeing  that  Martin  carried  all  before  him, 
began  straightway  to  flirt  with  the  heir.  At  first  the 
defection  was  not  noted,  but  when  she  elected  to  sit  by 
Frank  while  they  watched  the  acrobats  the  new  swain 
took  heart  once  more  and  squeezed  her  arm. 

Evelyn  Atkinson,  who  was  in  a  smiling  temper,  felt 
that  a  crisis  might  be  brought  about  now.  There  was 
not  much  time.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock,  and  soon  her 
mother  would  be  storming  at  her  for  not  having  taken 
herself  and  her  sisters  to  bed,  though,  in  justice  be  it 


"  It  is  the  First  Step  That  Counts  "      65 

said,  the  girls  could  not  possibly  sleep  until  the  house 
was  cleared. 

Ernest  Beckett-Smythe  was  her  cavalier  at  the 
moment. 

"  We've  seen  all  there  is  te  see,"  she  whispered. 
"  Let's  go  and  have  a  dance  in  our  yard.  Jim  Bates 
can  play  a  mouth-organ." 

Ernest  was  a  slow-witted  youth. 

"  Where's  the  good?  "  he  said.  "  There's  more  fun 
here." 

"  You  try  it,  an'  see,"  she  murmured  coyly. 

The  suggestion  caught  on.  It  was  discussed  while 
Martin  and  Jim  Bates  were  driving  a  weight  up  a  pole 
by  striking  a  lever  with  a  heavy  hammer.  Anything 
in  the  shape  of  an  athletic  feat  always  attracted 
Martin. 

Angele  was  delighted.  She  scented  a  row.  These 
village  urchins  were  imps  after  her  own  heart. 

"  Oh,  let's,"  she  agreed.  "  It'll  be  a  change.  I'll  show 
you  the  American  two-step." 

Frank  had  his  arm  around  her  waist  now. 

"  Right-o  !  "  he  cried.  "  Evelyn,  you  and  Ernest  lead 
the  way." 

The  girl,  flattered  by  being  bracketed  publicly  with 
one  of  the  squire's  sons,  enjoined  caution. 

"  Once  we're  past  t'  stables  it's  all  right,"  she  said. 
"  I  don't  suppose  Fred'll  hear  us,  anyhow." 

Fred  was  at  the  front  of  the  hotel  watching  the  road, 
watching  Kitty  Thwaites  as  she  flitted  upstairs  and 
down,  watching  George  Pickering  through  the  bar  win- 
dow, and  grinning  like  a  fiend  when  he  saw  that  some- 
what ardent  wooer,  hilarious  now,  but  sober  enough 


66  The  Revellers 

according  to  his  standard,  glancing  occasionally  at  his 
watch. 

There  was  a  gate  on  each  side  of  the  hotel.  That  on 
the  left  led  to  the  yard,  with  its  row  of  stables  and  cart- 
sheds,  and  thence  to  a  spacious  area  occupied  by  hay- 
istacks,  piles  of  firewood,  hen-houses,  and  all  the  miscel- 
laneous lumber  of  an  establishment  half  inn,  half  farm. 
The  gate  on  the  right  opened  into  a  bowling-green  and 
skittle-alley.  Behind  these  lay  the  kitchen  garden  and 
orchard.  A  hedge  separated  one  section  from  the  other, 
and  entrance  could  be  obtained  to  either  from  the  back 
door  of  the  hotel. 

The  radiance  of  a  full  moon  now  decked  the  earth  in 
silver  and  black;  in  the  shade  the  darkness  was  intense 
by  contrast.  The  church  clock  struck  ten. 

Half  a  dozen  youngsters  crept  silently  into  the  stable 
yard.  Angele  kicked  up  a  dainty  foot  in  a  preliminary 
pas  seul,  but  Evelyn  stopped  her  unceremoniously.  The 
village  girl's  sharp  ears  had  caught  footsteps  on  the 
garden  path  beyond  the  hedge. 

It  was  George  Pickering,  with  his  arm  around  Kitty's 
shoulders.  He  was  talking  in  a  low  tone,  and  she  was 
giggling  nervously. 

"  They're  sweetheartin',"  whispered  a  girl. 

"  So  are  we,"  declared  Frank  Beckett-Smythe. 
"  Aren't  we,  Angele?  " 

"  Sapristi!    I  should  think  so.    Where's  Martin?  " 

"  Never  mind.    We  don't  want  him." 

"  Oh,  he  will  be  furious.  Let's  hide.  There  will  be 
such  a  row  when  he  goes  home,  and  he  daren't  go  till 
he  finds  me." 

Master  Beckett-Smythe  experienced  a  second's  twinge 


"  It  is  the  First  Step  That  Counts  "      67 

at  thought  of  the  greeting  he  and  his  brother  would 
receive  at  the  Hall.  But  here  was  Angele  pretending 
timidity  and  cowering  in  his  arms.  He  would  not  leave 
her  now  were  he  to  be  flayed  alive. 

The  footsteps  of  Pickering  and  Kitty  died  away. 
They  had  gone  into  the  orchard. 

Evelyn  Atkinson  breathed  freely  again. 

"  Even  if  Kitty  sees  us  now,  I  don't  care,"  she  said. 
"  She  daren't  tell  mother,  when  she  knows  that  we  saw 
her  and  Mr.  Pickerin'.  He  ought  to  have  married  her 
sister." 

"  Poof!  "  tittered  Angele.    "  Who  heeds  a  domestic?  " 

Someone  came  at  a  fast  run  into  the  yard,  running 
in  desperate  haste,  and  making  a  fearful  din.  Two 
boys  appeared.  The  leader  shouted: 

"  Angele !     Angele !     Are  you  there  ?  " 

Martin  had  missed  her.  Jim  Bates,  who  knew  the 
chosen  rendezvous  of  the  Atkinson  girls,  suggested  that 
they  and  their  friends  had  probably  gone  to  the  hag- 
garth. 

"  Shut  up,  you  fool !  "  hissed  Frank.  "  Do  you  want 
the  whole  village  to  know  where  we  are?  " 

Martin  ignored  him.  He  darted  forward  and  caught 
Angele  by  the  shoulder.  He  distinguished  her  readily 
by  her  outline,  though  she  and  the  rest  were  hidden  in 
the  somber  shadows  of  the  outbuildings. 

"  Why  did  you  leave  me  ?  "  he  demanded  angrily. 
"You  must  come  home  at  once.  It  is  past  ten 
o'clock." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Martin,"  she  pouted.  "  I  am  just 
a  little  tired  of  the  noise.  I  want  to  show  you  and  the 
rest  a  new  dance." 


68  The  Revellers 

The  minx  was  playing  her  part  well.  She  had  read 
Evelyn  Atkinson's  soul.  She  felt  every  throb  of  young 
Beckett-Smythe's  foolish  heart.  She  was  quite  certain 
that  Martin  would  find  her  and  cause  a  scene.  There 
was  deeper  intrigue  afoot  now  than  the  mere  folly  of 
unlicensed  frolic  in  the  fair.  Her  vanity,  too,  was 
gratified  by  the  leading  role  she  filled  among  them  all. 
The  puppets  bore  themselves  according  to  their  temper- 
aments. Evelyn  bit  her  lip  with  rage  and  nearly  yielded 
to  a  wild  impulse  to  spring  at  Angele  and  scratch  her 
face.  Martin  was  white  with  determination.  As  for 
Master  Frank,  he  boiled  over  instantly. 

"  You  just  leave  her  alone,  young  Bolland,"  he  said 
thickly.  "  She  came  here  to  please  herself,  and  can 
stay  here,  if  she  likes.  I'll  see  to  that." 

Martin  did  not  answer. 

"  Angele,"  he  said  quietly,  "  come  away." 

Seeing  that  he  had  lived  in  the  village  nearly  all  his 
life,  it  was  passing  strange  that  this  boy  should  have 
dissociated  himself  so  completely  from  its  ways.  But 
the  early  hours  he  kept,  his  love  of  horses,  dogs,  and 
books,  his  preference  for  the  society  of  grooms  and 
gamekeepers — above  all,  a  keen,  if  unrecognized,  love  of 
nature  in  all  her  varying  moods,  an  almost  pagan  wor- 
ship of  mountain,  moor,  and  stream — had  kept  him  aloof 
from  village  life.  A  boy  of  fourteen  does  not  indulge 
in  introspection.  It  simply  came  as  a  fearful  shock  to 
find  the  daughter  of  a  lady  like  Mrs.  Saumarez  so  ready 
to  forget  her  social  standing.  Surely,  she  could  not 
know  what  she  was  doing.  He  was  undeceived,  promptly 
and  thoroughly. 

Angele  snatched  her  shoulder  from  his  grasp. 


"  It  is  the  First  Step  That  Counts  "      69 

"  Don't  you  dare  hold  me,"  she  snapped.  "  I'm  not 
coming.  I  won't  come  with  you,  anyhow.  Ma  foi, 
Frank  is  far  nicer." 

"  Then  I'll  drag  you  home,"  said  Martin. 

"  Oh,  will  you,  indeed?    I'll  see  to  that." 

Beckett-Smythe  deemed  Angele  a  girl  worth  fighting 
for.  In  any  case,  this  clodhopper  who  spent  money  like 
a  lord  must  be  taught  manners. 

Martin  smiled.  In  his  bemused  brain  the  idea  was 
gaining  ground  that  Angele  would  be  flattered  if  he 
"  licked  "  the  squire's  son  for  her  sake. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  stepping  back  into  the  moon- 
light. "  We'll  settle  it  that  way.  If  you  beat  me, 
Angele  remains.  If  I  beat  you,  she  goes  home.  Here, 
Jim.  Hold  my  coat  and  hat.  And,  no  matter  what 
happens,  mind  you  don't  play  for  any  dancing." 

Martin  stated  terms  and  issued  orders  like  an  em- 
peror. In  the  hour  of  stress  he  felt  himself  immeasur- 
ably superior  to  this  gang  of  urchins,  whether  their 
manners  smacked  of  Elmsdale  or  of  Eton. 

Angele's  acquaintance  with  popular  fiction  told  her 
that  at  this  stage  of  the  game  the  heroine  should  cling 
in  tears  to  the  one  she  loved,  and  implore  him  to  desist, 
to  be  calm  for  her  sake.  But  the  riot  in  her  veins 
brought  a  new  sensation.  There  were  possibilities 
hitherto  unsuspected  in  the  darkness,  the  secrecy,  the 
candid  brutality  of  the  fight.  She  almost  feared  lest 
Beckett-Smythe  should  be  defeated. 

And  how  the  other  girls  must  envy  her,  to  be  fought 
for  by  the  two  boys  pre-eminent  among  them,  to  be  the 
acknowledged  princess  of  this  village  carnival! 

So  she  clapped  her  hands. 


70  The  Revellers 

"  O  la  la !  "  she  cried.  "  Going  to  fight  about  poor 
little  me !  Well,  I  can't  stop  you,  can  I?  " 

"  Yes,  you  can,"  said  one. 

"  She  won't,  anyhow,"  scoffed  the  other.  "  Are  you 
ready?" 

"  Quite ! " 

"  Then  «  go.'  " 

And  the  battle  began. 


CHAPTER  VI 
WHEREIN  THE  RED  BLOOD  FLOWS 

THEY  fought  like  a  couple  of  young  bulls.  Frank 
intended  to  demolish  his  rival  at  the  outset.  He  was  a 
year  older  and  slightly  heavier,  but  Martin  was  more 
active,  more  sure-footed,  sharper  of  vision.  Above  all, 
he  had  laid  to  heart  the  three-pennyworth  of  tuition 
obtained  in  the  boxing  booth  a  few  hours  earlier. 

He  had  noted  then  that  a  boxer  dodged  as  many  blows 
with  his  head  as  he  warded  with  his  arms.  He  grasped 
the  necessity  to  keep  moving,  and  thus  disconcert  an 
adversary's  sudden  rush.  Again,  he  had  seen  the  excel- 
lence of  a  forward  spring  without  changing  the  relative 
positions  of  the  feet.  Assuming  you  were  sparring  with 
the  left  hand  and  foot  advanced,  a  quick  jump  of  eight- 
een inches  enabled  you  to  get  the  right  home  with  all 
your  force.  You  must  keep  the  head  well  back  and  the 
eye  fixed  unflinchingly  on  your  opponent's.  Above  all, 
meet  offense  with  offense.  Hit  hard  and  quickly  and  as 
often  as  might  be. 

These  were  sound  principles,  and  he  proceeded  to  put 
them  into  execution,  to  the  growing  distress  and  singu- 
lar annoyance  of  Master  Beckett-Smythe. 

Ernest  acted  as  referee — in  the  language  of  the  vil- 
lage, he  "  saw  fair  play  " — but  was  wise  enough  to  call 
"  time  "  early  in  the  first  round,  when  his  brother  drew 
off  after  a  fierce  set-to.  The  forcing  tactics  had  failed, 

71 


72  The  Revellers 

but  honors  were  divided.  The  taller  boy's  reach  had 
told  in  his  favor,  while  Martin's  newly  acquired  science 
redressed  the  balance. 

Martin's  lip  was  cut  and  there  was  a  lump  on  his  left 
cheek,  but  Frank  felt  an  eye  closing  and  had  received  a 
staggerer  in  the  ribs.  He  was  aware  of  an  uneasy  feel- 
ing that  if  Martin  survived  the  next  round  he  (Frank) 
would  be  beaten,  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  sum- 
mon all  his  reserves  and  deliver  a  Napoleonic  attack. 
The  enemy  must  be  crushed  by  sheer  force. 

He  was  a  plucky  lad  and  was  stung  to  frenzy  by  see- 
ing Angele  offer  Martin  the  use  of  a  lace  handkerchief 
for  the  bleeding  lip,  a  delicate  tenderness  quietly  re- 
pulsed. 

So,  when  the  rush  came,  Martin  had  to  fight  desper- 
ately to  avoid  annihilation.  He  was  compelled  to  give 
way,  and  backed  toward  the  hedge.  Behind  lay  an 
unseen  stackpole.  At  the  instant  when  Beckett-Smythe 
lowered  his  head  and  endeavored  to  butt  Martin  violently 
in  the  stomach,  the  latter  felt  the  obstruction  with  his 
heel.  Had  he  lost  his  nerve  then  or  flickered  an  eyelid, 
he  would  have  taken  a  nasty  fall  and  a  severe  shaking. 
As  it  was,  he  met  the  charge  more  than  halfway,  and 
delivered  the  same  swinging  upper  stroke  which  had 
nearly  proved  fatal  to  his  gamekeeper  friend. 

It  was  wholly  disastrous  to  Beckett-Smythe.  It 
caught  him  fairly  on  the  nose,  and,  as  the  blow  was  in 
accord  with  the  correct  theory  of  dynamics  as  applied 
to  forces  in  motion,  it  knocked  him  silly.  His  head  flew 
up,  his  knees  bent,  and  he  dropped  to  the  ground  with  a 
horrible  feeling  that  the  sky  had  fallen  and  that  stars 
were  sparkling  among  the  rough  paving-stones. 


Wherein  the  Red  Blood  Flows          73 

"  That's  a  finisher.  He's  whopped !  "  exulted  Jim 
Bates. 

"  No,  he's  not.  It  was  a  chance  blow,"  cried  Ernest, 
who  was  strongly  inclined  to  challenge  the  victor  on  his 
own  account.  "  Get  up,  Frank.  Have  another  go  at 
him!" 

But  Frank,  who  could  neither  see  nor  hear  distinctly, 
was  too  groggy  to  rise,  and  the  village  girls  drew  to- 
gether in  an  alarmed  group.  Such  violent  treatment  of 
the  squire's  son  savored  of  sacrilege.  They  were  sure 
that  Martin  would  receive  some  condign  punishment  by 
the  law  for  pummeling  a  superior  being  so  unmerci- 
fully. 

Angele,  somewhat  frightened  herself,  tried  to  console 
her  discomfited  champion. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said.    "  It  was  all  my  fault." 

"  Oh,  go  away !  "  he  protested.  "  Ernest,  where's 
there  a  pump  ?  " 

Assisted  by  his  brother,  he  struggled  to  his  feet.  His 
nose  was  bleeding  freely  and  his  face  was  ghastly  in  the 
moonlight.  But  he  was  a  spirited  youngster.  He  held 
out  a  hand  to  Martin. 

"  I've  had  enough  just  now,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt 
at  a  smile.  "  Some  other  day,  when  my  eye  is  all  right, 
I'd  like  to " 

A  woman's  scream  of  terror,  a  man's  cry  of  agony, 
startled  the  silent  night  and  nearly  scared  the  children 
out  of  their  wits. 

Someone  came  running  up  the  garden  path.  It  was 
Kitty  Thwaites.  She  swayed  unsteadily  as  she  ran ;  her 
arms  were  lifted  in  frantic  supplication. 

"  Oh,  Betsy,  Betsy,  you've  killed  him ! "  she  wailed. 


74  The  Revellers 

"  Murder !  Murder !  Come,  someone !  For  God's  sake, 
come ! " 

She  stumbled  and  fell,  shrieking  frenziedly  for  help. 
Another  woman — a  woman  whose  extended  right  hand 
clutched  a  long,  thin  knife  such  as  is  used  to  carve 
game — appeared  from  the  gloom  of  the  orchard.  Her 
wan  face  was  raised  to  the  sky,  and  a  baleful  light 
shone  in  her  eyes. 

"  Ay,  I'll  swing  for  him,"  she  cried  in  a  voice  shrill 
with  hysteria.  "  May  the  Lord  deal  wi'  him  as  he  dealt 
wi'  me!  And  my  own  sister,  too!  Out  on  ye,  ye 
strumpet!  'Twould  sarve  ye  right  if  I  stuck  ye  wi'  t5 
same  knife." 

With  a  clatter  of  ironshod  boots,  most  of  the  fright- 
ened children  stampeded  out  of  the  stable  yard.  Martin, 
to  whom  Angele  clung  in  speechless  fear,  and  the  two 
Beckett-Smythes  alone  were  left. 

The  din  of  steam  organ  and  drums,  the  ceaseless  tur- 
moil of  the  fair,  the  constant  fusillade  at  the  shooting 
gallery,  and  the  bawling  of  men  in  charge  of  the  various 
sideshows,  had  kept  the  women's  shrieks  from  other  ears 
thus  far.  But  Kitty  Thwaites,  though  almost  shocked 
out  of  her  senses,  gained  strength  from  the  imminence 
of  peril.  Springing  up  from  the  path  just  in  time  to 
avoid  the  vengeful  oncoming  of  her  sister,  she  staggered 
toward  the  hotel  and  created  instant  alarm  by  her  cries 
of  "  Murder !  Help !  George  Pickering  has  been 
stabbed!" 

A  crowd  of  men  poured  out  from  bar  and  smoking- 
room.  One,  who  took  thought,  rushed  through  the  front 
door  and  snatched  a  naphtha  lamp  from  a  stall.  Mean- 
while, the  three  boys  and  the  girl  on  the  other  side  of 


Wherein  the  Red  Blood  Flows          75 

the  hedge,  seeing  and  hearing  everything,  but  unseen 
and  unheard  themselves,  took  counsel  in  some  sort. 

"  I  say,"  Ernest  Beckett-Smythe  urged  his  brother, 
"  let's  get  out  of  this.  Father  will  thrash  us  to  death 
if  we're  mixed  up  in  this  business." 

The  advice  was  good.  Frank  forgot  his  dizziness  for 
the  moment,  and  the  two  raced  to  secure  their  bicycles 
from  a  stall-holder's  care.  They  rode  away  to  the  Hall 
unnoticed. 

Martin  remained  curiously  quiet.  All  the  excitement 
had  left  him.  If  Elmsdale  were  rent  by  an  earthquake 
just  then,  he  would  have  watched  the  toppling  houses 
with  equanimity. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  wish  to  stop  here  now?  "  he 
said  to  Angele. 

The  girl  was  sobbing  bitterly.  Her  small  body  shook 
as  though  each  gulp  were  a  racking  cough.  She  could 
not  answer.  He  placed  his  arm  around  her  and  led  her  to 
the  gate.  While  they  were  crossing  the  yard  the  people 
from  the  hotel  crowded  into  the  garden.  The  man  with 
the  lamp  had  reached  the  back  of  the  house  across  the 
bowling  green,  and  a  stalwart  farmer  had  caught  Betsy 
Thwaites  by  the  wrist.  The  blood-stained  knife  fell 
from  her  fingers.  She  moaned  helplessly  in  disjointed 
phrases. 

"  It's  all  overed  now.  God  help  me !  Why  was  I 
born?" 

Already  a  crowd  was  surging  into  the  hotel  through 
the  front  door.  Martin  guided  his  trembling  companion 
to  the  right;  in  a  few  strides  they  were  clear  of  the  fair, 
only  to  run  into  Mrs.  Saumarez's  German  chauffeur. 

He  was  not  in  uniform;  in  a  well-fitting  blue  serge 


76  The  Revellers 

suit  and  straw  hat,  he  looked  more  like  a  young  officer 
in  mufti  than  a  mechanic.  He  was  the  first  to  recognize 
Angele,  and  was  so  frankly  astonished  that  he  bowed  to 
her  without  lifting  his  hat. 

**  You,  mees?  "  he  cried,  seemingly  at  a  loss  for  other 
words. 

Angele  recovered  her  wits  at  once.  She  said  some- 
thing which  Martin  could  not  understand,  though  he  was 
sure  it  was  not  in  French,  as  the  girl's  frequent  use  of 
that  language  was  familiarizing  his  ears  with  its  sounds. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  spoke  German,  telling  the  chauf- 
feur to  mind  his  own  business,  and  she  would  mind  hers ; 
but  if  any  talking  were  done  her  tongue  might  wag  more 
than  his. 

At  any  rate,  the  man  did  then  raise  his  hat  politely 
and  walk  on.  The  remainder  of  the  road  between  Elms- 
dale  and  The  Elms  was  deserted.  Martin  hardly 
realized  the  pace  at  which  he  was  literally  dragging  his 
companion  homeward  until  she  protested. 

"  Martin,  you're  hurting  my  arm !  What's  the 
hurry?  .  .  .  Did  she  really  kill  him?" 

"  She  said  so.    I  don't  know,"  he  replied. 

"Who  was  she?" 

"  Kitty  Thwaites's  sister,  I  suppose.  I  never  saw 
her  before.  They  were  not  bred  in  this  village." 

"  And  why  did  she  kill  him?  " 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

"  She  had  a  knife  in  her  hand." 

"  Yes." 

"  Perhaps  she  killed  him  because  she  was  jealous." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Martin,  don't  be  angry  with  me.    I  didn't  mean  any 


Wherein  the  Red  Blood  Flows          77 

harm.  I  was  only  having  a  lark.  I  did  it  just  to  tease 
you — and  Evelyn  Atkinson." 

"  That's  all  very  fine.  What  will  your  mother 
say?" 

The  quietude,  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  were  giving 
the  girl  courage.  She  tossed  her  head  with  something 
of  contempt. 

"  She  can  say  nothing.  You  leave  her  to  me.  You 
saw  how  I  shut  Fritz's  mouth.  What  was  the  name  of 
the  man  who  was  killed  ?  " 

"  George  Pickering." 

"  Ah.  He  walked  down  the  garden  with  Kitty 
Thwaites." 

"Indeed?" 

"  Yes.  When  I  get  in  I  can  tell  Miss  Walker  and 
Fran9oise  all  about  it.  They  will  be  so  excited.  There 
will  be  no  fuss  about  me  being  out.  Via  la  bonne 
fortune ! " 

"  Speak  English,  please." 

"  Well,  it  is  good  luck  I  was  there.  I  can  make  up 
such  a  story." 

"  Good  luck  that  a  poor  fellow  should  be  stabbed ! " 

"  That  wasn't  my  fault,  was  it?  Good-night,  Martin. 
You  fought  beautifully.  Kiss  me !  " 

"  I  won't  kiss  you.  Run  in,  now.  I'll  wait  till  the 
door  opens." 

"  Then  I'll  kiss  you.  There !  I  like  you  better  than 
all  the  world — just  now." 

She  opened  the  gate,  careless  whether  it  clanged 
or  not.  Martin  heard  her  quick  footsteps  on  the 
gravel  of  the  short  drive.  She  rattled  loudly  on  the 
door. 


78  The  Revellers 

"  Good-night,  Martin — dear !  "  she  cried. 

He  did  not  answer.  There  was  some  delay.  Evi- 
dently she  had  not  been  missed. 

"  Are  you  there  ?  "  She  was  impatient  of  his  con- 
tinued coldness. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  speak,  silly  ?  " 

The  door  opened  with  the  clanking  of  a  chain.  There 
was  a  woman's  startled  cry  as  the  inner  light  fell  on 
Angele.  Then  he  turned. 

Not  until  he  reached  the  "  Black  Lion  "  and  its  well- 
lighted  area  did  he  realize  that  he  was  coatless  and  hat- 
less.  Jim  Bates  had  vanished  with  both  of  these  neces- 
sary articles.  Well,  in  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound! 
There  would  be  a  fearful  row,  and  the  thrashing  would 
be  the  same  in  any  case. 

He  avoided  the  crowd,  keeping  to  the  darker  side  of 
the  street.  A  policeman  had  just  come  out  of  the  inn 
and  was  telling  the  people  to  go  away.  All  the  village 
seemed  to  have  gathered  during  the  few  minutes  which 
had  elapsed  since  the  tragedy  took  place.  He  felt 
strangely  sorry  for  Betsy  Thwaites.  Would  she  be 
locked  up,  handcuffed,  with  chains  on  her  ankles  ?  What 
would  they  do  with  the  knife?  Why  should  she  want  to 
kill  Mr.  Pickering?  Wouldn't  he  marry  her?  Even  so, 
that  was  no  reason  he  should  be  stabbed.  Where  did 
she  stick  him?  Did  he  quiver  like  Absalom  when  Joab 
thrust  the  darts  into  his  heart? 

At  last  he  ran  up  the  slight  incline  leading  to  the 
White  House;  there  was  a  light  in  the  front  kitchen. 
For  one  awful  moment  he  paused,  with  a  finger  on  the 
sneck;  then  he  pressed  the  latch  and  entered. 


Wherein  the  Red  Blood  Flows          79 

John  Bolland,  grim  as  a  stone  gargoyle,  wearing  his 
Sunday  coat  and  old-fashioned  tall  hat,  was  leaning 
against  the  massive  chimneypiece.  Mrs.  Bolland,  with 
bonnet  awry,  was  seated.  She  had  been  crying.  A 
frightened  kitchenmaid  peeped  through  the  passage 
leading  to  the  back  of  the  house  when  the  door  opened 
to  admit  the  truant.  Then  she  vanished. 

There  was  a  period  of  chill  silence  while  Martin  closed 
the  door.  He  turned  and  faced  the  elderly  couple,  and 
John  Bolland  spoke: 

"  So  ye've  coom  yam,  eh?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  An'  at  a  nice  time,  too.  Af ther  half-past  ten !  An 
hour  sen  yer  muther  an'  me  searched  high  and  low  for 
ye.  Where  hev'  ye  bin  ?  Tell  t'  truth,  ye  young  scamp. 
Every  lie'll  mean  more  skin  off  your  back." 

Mrs.  Bolland,  drying  her  eyes,  now  that  Martin  had 
returned,  noticed  his  disheveled  condition.  His  face 
was  white  as  his  shirt,  and  both  were  smeared  with 
blood.  A  wave  of  new  alarm  paled  her  florid  cheeks. 
She  ran  to  him. 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  boy,  what  hev  ye  bin  doin'  ?  Are 
ye  hurt?" 

"  No,  mother,  not  hurt.  I  fought  Frank  Beckett- 
Smythe.  That  is  all." 

"  T'  squire's  son.    Why  on  earth " 

"  Go  to  bed,  Martha,"  said  John,  picking  up  a  riding 
whip.  But  Mrs.  Bolland's  sympathies  discerned  a 
deeper  reason  for  Martin's  escapade  than  a  mere  boyish 
frolic  which  deserved  a  thrashing.  He  was  unnaturally 
calm.  Something  out  of  the  common  had  happened. 
He  did  not  flinch  at  the  sight  of  the  whip. 


80  The  Revellers 

"  John,"  she  said  sternly,  "  ye  shan't  touch  him  to- 
night." 

"  Stand  aside,  Martha.  If  all  my  good  teachin'  is  of 
no  avail " 

"  Mebbe  t'  lad's  fair  sick  o*  yer  good  teachin'.  You 
lay  a  hand  on  him  at  yer  peril.  If  ye  do,  I  don't  bide 
i'  the  house  this  night !  " 

Never  before,  during  thirty  years  of  married  life,  had 
Martha  Bolland  defied  her  husband.  He  glowered  with 
anger  and  amazement. 

"  Would  ye  revile  the  Word  te  shield  that  spawn  o' 
Satan?  "  he  roared.  "  Get  away,  woman,  lest  I  do  thee 
an  injury." 

But  his  wife's  temper  was  fierce  as  his  own  when 
roused.  She  was  a  Meynell,  and  there  have  been  Mey- 
nells  in  Yorkshire  as  long  as  any  Bollands. 

"  Tak'  yer  threats  te  those  who  heed  'em,"  she  re- 
torted bitterly.  "  D'ye  think  folk  will  stand  by  an'  let 
ye  raise  yer  hand  te  me?  .  .  .  David,  William,  Mary, 
coom  here  an'  hold  yer  master.  He's  like  te  have  a  fit 
wi'  passion." 

There  was  a  shuffling  in  the  passage.  The  men  ser- 
vants, such  as  happened  to  be  in  the  house,  came  awk- 
wardly at  their  mistress's  cry.  The  farmer  stood 
spellbound.  What  devil  possessed  the  household 
that  his  authority  should  be  set  at  naught  thus 
openly? 

It  was  a  thrilling  moment,  but  Martin  solved  the 
difficulty.  He  wrenched  himself  free  of  Mrs.  Bolland's 
protecting  arms. 

"  Father,  mother !  "  he  cried.  "  Don't  quarrel  on  my 
account.  If  I  must  be  beaten,  I  don't  care.  I'll  take 


Wherein  the  Red  Blood  Flows          81 

all  I  get.  But  it's  only  fair  that  I  should  say  why  I 
was  not  home  earlier." 

Now,  John  Bolland,  notwithstanding  his  dealing  in 
the  matter  of  the  pedigree  cow,  prided  himself  on  his 
sense  of  justice.  Indeed,  the  man  who  does  the  gravest 
injury  to  his  fellows  is  often  cursed  with  a  narrow- 
minded  certainty  of  his  own  righteousness.  Moreover, 
this  matter  had  gone  beyond  instant  adjustment  by  the 
unsparing  use  of  a  whip.  His  wife,  his  servants,  were 
arrayed  against  him.  By  the  Lord,  they  should  rue  it ! 
"  "  Aye,"  he  said  grimly.  "  Tell  your  muther  why 
you've  been  actin'  t'  blackguard.  Mebbe  she'll  under- 
stand." 

Mrs.  Bolland  had  the  sense  to  pass  this  taunt  un- 
heeded. Her  heart  was  quailing  already  at  her  temerity. 

"  Angele  Saumarez  came  out  without  her  mother," 
said  Martin.  "  Mrs.  Saumarez  is  ill.  I  thought  it  best 
to  remain  with  her  and  take  her  home  again.  Frank 
Beckett-Smythe  joined  us,  and  he — he — insulted  her,  in 
a  way.  So  I  fought  him,  and  beat  him,  too.  And  then 
George  Pickering  was  murdered " 

"What?"  ' 

Bolland  dropped  the  whip  on  the  table.  His  wife 
sank  into  a  chair  with  a  cry  of  alarm.  The  plowmen 
and  maids  ventured  farther  into  the  room.  Even  the 
farmer's  relentless  jaw  fell  at  this  terrific  announcement. 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  true.  Frank  and  I  fought  in  the 
yard  of  the  '  Black  Lion.'  George  Pickering  and  Kitty 
Thwaites  went  down  the  garden — at  least,  so  I  was  told. 
I  didn't  see  them.  But,  suddenly,  Kitty  came  screaming 
along  the  path,  and  after  her  a  woman  waving  a  long 
knife  in  the  air.  Kitty  called  her  *  Betsy,'  and  said  she 


82  The  Revellers 

had  killed  George  Pickering.  She  said  so  herself.  I 
heard  her.  Then  some  men  came  with  a  light  and  caught 
hold  of  Betsy.  She  was  going  to  stab  Kitty,  too,  I 
think;  and  Jim  Bates  ran  away  with  my  coat  and  hat, 
which  he  was  holding." 

The  effect  of  such  a  narration  on  a  gathering  of  vil- 
lagers, law-abiding  folk  who  lived  in  a  quiet  nook  like 
Elmsdale,  was  absolutely  paralyzing.  John  Bolland 
was  the  first  to  recover  himself.  A  man  of  few  ideas,  he 
could  not  adjust  his  mental  balance  with  sufficient  nicety 
to  see  that  the  tragedy  itself  in  no  wise  condoned  Mar- 
tin's offense. 

"  Are  ye  sure  of  what  ye're  sayin',  lad  ? "  he  de- 
manded, though  indeed  he  felt  it  was  absurd  to  imagine 
that  such  a  tale  would  be  invented  as  a  mere  excuse. 

"  Quite  sure,  sir.  If  you  walk  down  to  the  '  Black 
Lion,'  you'll  see  all  the  people  standing  round  the  hotel 
and  the  police  keeping  them  back." 

"  Well,  well,  I'll  gan  this  minit.  George  Pickerin' 
was  no  friend  o'  mine,  but  I'm  grieved  te  hear  o'  sike 
deeds  as  these  in  oor  village.  I  was  maist  angered  wi' 
you  on  yer  muther's  account.  She  was  grievin'  so  when 
we  failed  te  find  ye.  She  thowt  sure  you  were  runned 
over  or  drownded  i'  t'  beck." 

This  was  meant  as  a  graceful  apology  to  his  wife, 
and  was  taken  in  that  spirit.  Never  before  had  he  made 
such  a  concession. 

"  Here's  yer  stick,  John,"  she  said.  "  Hurry  and  find 
out  what's  happened.  Poor  George !  I  wish  my  tongue 
hadn't  run  so  fast  t'  last  time  I  seed  him." 

Bolland  and  the  other  men  hastened  away,  and  Martin 
was  called  on  to  recount  the  sensational  episode,  with 


Wherein  the  Red  Blood  Flows          83 

every  detail  known  to  him,  for  the  benefit  of  the  house- 
hold. No  one  paid  heed  to  the  boy's  own  adventures. 
All  ears  were  for  the  vengeance  taken  by  Betsy  Thwaites 
on  the  man  who  jilted  her.  Even  to  minds  blunted 
almost  to  callousness,  the  crime  passionel  had  a  vivid,  an 
entrancing  interest.  The  women  were  quick  to  see  its 
motive,  a  passive  endurance  stung  to  sudden  frenzy  by 
the  knowledge  that  the  faithless  lover  was  pursuing  the 
younger  sister.  But  how  did  Betsy  Thwaites,  who  lived 
in  far-off  Hereford,  learn  that  George  Pickering  was 
"making  up"  to  Kitty?  The  affair  was  of  recent 
growth.  Indeed,  none  of  those  present  was  aware  that 
Pickering  and  the  pretty  maid  at  the  "  Black  Lion  " 
were  so  much  as  acquainted  with  each  other.  And  where 
did  Betsy  spring  from?  She  could  not  have  been  stay- 
ing in  the  village,  or  someone  aware  of  her  history  must 
have  seen  her.  Did  Kitty  know  she  was  there?  If  so, 
how  foolish  of  the  younger  woman  to  be  out  gallivanting 
in  the  moonlight  with  Pickering. 

The  whole  story  was  fraught  with  deepest  mystery. 
Martin  could  not  answer  one-tenth  of  the  questions  put 
to  him.  Boy-like,  he  felt  himself  somewhat  of  a  hero, 
until  he  remembered  Angele's  glee  at  the  "  good  luck  " 
of  the  occurrence — how  she  would  save  herself  from 
blame  by  telling  Miss  Walker  and  Fran9oise  "  all 
about  it." 

He  flushed  deeply.  He  wished  now  that  Bolland  had 
given  him  a  hiding  before  he  blurted  out  his  news. 

"  Bless  the  lad,  he's  fair  tired  te  death ! "  said  Mrs. 
Bolland.  "  Here,  Martin,  drink  a  glass  o'  port  an'  off 
te  bed  wi*  ye." 

He  sipped  the  wine,  wondering  dimly  what  Frank 


84  The  Revellers 

Beckett-Smythe  was  enduring  and  how  he  would  explain 
that  black  eye.  He  was  about  to  go  upstairs,  when 
hasty  steps  sounded  without,  and  Bolland  entered  with 
a  policeman. 

This  was  the  village  constable,  and,  of  course,  well 
known  to  all.  During  the  feast  other  policemen  came 
from  neighboring  villages,  but  the  local  officer  was  best 
fitted  to  conduct  inquiries  into  a  case  requiring  measures 
beyond  a  mere  arrest.  His  appearance  at  this  late 
hour  created  a  fresh  sensation. 

"Martin,"  said  the  farmer  gravely,  "  did  ye  surely 
hear  Kitty  Thwaites  say  that  Betsy  had  killed  Mr. 
Pickering?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  I  did." 

"  And  ye  heerd  Betsy  admit  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes — that  is,  if  Betsy  is  the  woman  with  the 
knife." 

"  There !  "  said  Bolland,  turning  to  the  policeman. 
"  I  telt  ye  so.  T'  lad  has  his  faults,  but  he's  nae  leear ; 
I'll  say  that  for  him." 

The  man  took  off  his  helmet  and  wiped  his  forehead, 
for  the  night  was  close  and  warm. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  just  leave  it  for  the  «  Super ' 
te  sattle.  Mr.  Pickerin'  sweers  that  Betsy  never  struck 
him.  She  ran  up  tiv  him  wi'  t'  knife,  an'  they  quarrelled 
desperately.  That  he  don't  deny.  She  threatened  him, 
too,  an'  te  get  away  frev  her  he  was  climin'  inte  t' 
stackyard  when  he  slipped,  an'  a  fork  lyin'  again'  t' 
fence  ran  intiv  his  ribs." 

"Isn't  he  dead,  then?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bolland 
shrilly. 

"  Not  he?  ma'am,  and  not  likely  te  be.    He  kem  to  as 


Wherein  the  Red  Blood  Flows          85 

soon  as  he  swallowed  some  brandy,  an'  his  first  words 
was,  'Where's  Betsy?'  He  was  fair  wild  when  they 
telt  him  she  was  arrested.  He  said  it  was  all  the  fault 
of  that  flighty  lass,  Kitty,  an'  that  a  lot  of  fuss  was 
bein'  made  about  nowt.  I  didn't  know  what  te  dea. 
Beath  women  were  fair  ravin',  and  said  all  soarts  o' 
things,  but  t'  upshot  is  that  Betsy  is  nussin'  Mr.  Pick- 
erin'  now  until  t'  doctor  comes  frae  Nottonby." 

He  still  mopped  his  head,  and  his  glance  wandered  to 
the  goodly  cask  in  the  corner. 

"  Will  ye  hev  a  pint  ?  "  inquired  Bolland. 

"  Ay,  that  I  will,  Mr.  Bolland,  an'  welcome." 

"  An'  a  bite  o'  bread  an'  meat?  "  added  Mrs.  Bolland. 

"  I  doan't  min'  if  I  do,  ma'am." 

A  glance  at  a  maid  produced  eatables  with  lightning 
speed.  Mary  feared  lest  she  should  miss  a  syllable  of 
the  night's  marvels. 

The  policeman  had  many  "  bites,"  and  talked  while  he 
ate.  Gradually  the  story  became  lucid  and  consecutive. 

Fred,  the  groom,  was  jealous  of  Pickering's  admira- 
tion for  Kitty.  Having  overheard  the  arrangement  for 
a  meeting  on  Monday,  he  wrote  to  Betsy,  sending  her 
the  information  in  the  hope  that  she  would  come  from 
Hereford  and  cause  a  commotion  at  the  hotel. 

He  expected  her  by  an  earlier  train,  but  she  did  not 
arrive  until  9 :  20  P.M.,  and  there  was  a  walk  of  over 
two  miles  from  the  station. 

Meanwhile,  he  had  seen  Kitty  and  Pickering  steal  off 
into  the  garden.  He  knew  that  any  interference  on  his 
part  would  earn  him  a  prompt  beating,  so,  when  Betsy 
put  in  a  belated  appearance,  he  met  her  in  the  passage 
and  told  her  where  she  would  find  the  couple. 


86  The  Revellers 

Instantly  she  ran  through  the  kitchen,  snatching  a 
knife  as  she  went.  Before  the  drink-sodden  meddler 
could  realize  the  extent  of  the  mischief  he  had  wrought, 
Kitty  was  shrieking  that  Pickering  was  dead.  All  this 
he  blurted  out  to  the  police  before  the  injured  man  gave 
another  version  of  the  affair. 

"  Martin  bears  out  one  side  o'  t'  thing,"  commented 
the  constable  oracularly,  "  but  t'  chief  witness  says  that 
summat  else  happened.  There  was  blood  on  t'  knife 
when  it  was  picked  up ;  but  there,  again,  there's  a  doubt, 
as  Betsy  had  cut  her  own  arm  wi't.  Anyhow,  Betsy  an' 
Kitty  were  cryin'  their  hearts  out  when  they  kem  out  of 
Mr.  Pickerin's  room  for  towels;  and  he's  bleedin' 
dreadful." 

This  final  gory  touch  provided  an  artistic  curtain. 
The  constable  readjusted  his  belt  and  took  his  de- 
parture. 

After  another  half-hour's  eager  gossip  among  the 
elders,  in  which  Fred  suffered  much  damage  to  his  char- 
acter, Martin  was  hurried  off  to  bed.  Mrs.  Bolland 
washed  his  bruised  face  and  helped  him  to  undress.  She 
was  folding  his  trousers,  when  a  shower  of  money  rattled 
to  the  floor. 

"  Marcy  on  us ! "  she  cried  in  real  bewilderment, 
"  here's  a  sovereign,  a  half-sovereign,  an'  silver,  an' 
copper!  Martin,  my  boy,  whatever  ..." 

"  Angele  gave  it  to  me,  mother.  She  gave  me  two 
pounds  ten  to  spend." 

"  Two  pund  ten !  " 

"  Yes.  I  suppose  it  was  very  wrong.  I'll  give 
back  all  that  is  left  to  Mrs.  Saumarez  in  the  morn- 
ing." 


Wherein  the  Red  Blood  Flows          87 

Martha  Bolland  was  very  serious  now.  She  crept  to 
the  door  of  the  bedroom  and  listened. 

"  I  do  hope  yer  father  kens  nowt  o'  this,"  she  whis- 
pered anxiously. 

Then  she  counted  the  money. 

"  You've  spent  sixteen  shillin's  and  fowerpence,  not 
reckonin'  t'  shillin'  I  gev  ye  this  mornin'.  Seventeen 
an'  fowerpence!  Martin,  Martin,  whatever  on?" 

Such  extravagance  was  appalling.  Her  frugal  mind 
could  not  assimilate  it  readily.  This  sum  would  main- 
tain a  large  family  for  a  week. 

"  We  stood  treat  to  a  lot  of  other  boys  and  girls. 
But  don't  be  vexed  to-night,  mother,  dear.  I'm  so 
tired." 

"Vexed,  indeed.  What'll  Mrs.  Saumarez  say? 
There'll  be  a  bonny  row  i'  t'  mornin'.  You  tak'  it  back 
t'  first  thing.  An',  here.  If  she  sez  owt  about  t'  bal- 
ance, come  an'  tell  me  an'  I'll  make  it  up.  You  fond 
lad;  if  John  knew  this,  he'd  never  forgive  ye.  There, 
honey,  go  te  sleep." 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  bent  and  kissed 
him.  But  he  was  incapable  of  further  emotion.  He  was 
half  asleep  ere  she  descended  the  stairs,  and  his  last 
sentient  thought  was  one  of  keen  enjoyment,  for  his 
knuckles  were  sore  when  he  closed  his  right  hand,  and 
he  remembered  the  smashing  force  of  that  uppercut  as 
it  met  the  aristocratic  nose  of  Master  Beckett-Smythe. 


CHAPTER  VII 
GEORGE  PICKERING  PLAYS  THE  MAN 

MARTIN  was  awakened  by  the  rays  of  a  bright  autumn 
sun.  He  sprang  out  of  bed  in  a  jiffy,  lest  he  should  be 
late  for  breakfast,  a  heinous  offense  at  the  farm ;  but 
the  sight  of  William  feeding  the  pigs  in  the  yard  beneath 
told  him  that  it  was  only  half-past  six. 

The  first  puzzle  that  presented  itself  was  one  of  cos- 
tume. Should  he  wear  his  commonplace  corduroys,  or 
don  all  that  was  left  of  his  gray  tweeds?  During  the 
Feast  he  was  supposed  to  dress  in  his  best  each  day; 
he  decided  to  obey  orders  as  far  as  was  possible. 

He  missed  the  money  from  his  trousers  pocket  and 
knew  that  his  mother  had  taken  it.  Also,  he  found  that 
she  had  selected  a  clean  shirt  and  collar  from  the 
drawer  and  placed  them  ready  for  use.  By  degrees  his 
active  brain  recalled  the  startling  events  of  the  previous 
evening  in  their  proper  sequence,  and  he  found  himself 
speculating  more  on  the  reception  Mrs.  Saumarez  might 
accord  than  on  the  attitude  John  Bolland  would  cer- 
tainly adopt  when  the  overnight  proceedings  arranged 
themselves  in  a  slow-moving  mind. 

He  was  downstairs  long  before  seven.  The  farmer 
was  out.  Mrs.  Bolland,  immersed  in  the  early  cares  of 
the  household,  showed  no  traces  of  the  excitement  of 
eight  hours  earlier. 

"  Martin,"  she  cried  as  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of 

88 


George  Pickering  Plays  the  Man        89 

him,  "  I  heerd  a  hen  cluckin'  a  bit  sen  at  t'  bottom  o'  t' 
garth.  Just  look  i'  t'  hedge  an'  see  if  she's  nestin'?  " 

This  was  a  daily  undertaking  in  a  house  where  poul- 
try were  plentiful  as  sparrows  in  Piccadilly. 

Martin  hailed  the  mission  as  a  sign  that  normal  times 
were  come  again.  A  gate  led  into  the  meadow  from  the 
garden,  but  to  go  that  way  meant  walking  twenty  yards 
or  more,  so  the  boy  took  a  running  jump,  caught  a  stout 
limb  of  a  pear  tree,  swung  himself  onto  a  ten-foot  pile 
of  wood,  and  dropped  over  into  the  field  beyond. 

Mrs.  Bolland  witnessed  the  feat  with  some  degree  of 
alarm.  In  the  course  of  a  few  hours  she  had  come  to 
see  her  adopted  son  passing  from  childhood  into  vig- 
orous adolescence. 

"  Drat  that  lad !  "  she  cried  irately.  "  Does  he  want 
to  break  his  neck  ?  " 

"  He  larnt  that  trick  t'other  day,  missus,"  commented 
William,  standing  all  lopsided  to  balance  a  huge  pail 
of  pig's  food.  "  He'll  mek  a  rare  chap,  will  your 
Martin." 

"  He's  larnin'  a  lot  o'  tricks  that  I  ken  nowt  about," 
cried  Mistress  Martha.  "  Nice  doin's  there  was  last 
night.  How  comes  it  none  o'  you  men  saw  him  carryin' 
on  i'  t'  fair  wi'  that  little  French  la-di-dah?  " 

"  I  dunno,  ma'am." 

William  grinned,  though,  for  some  of  the  men  had 
noted  the  children's  antics,  and  none  would  "  split  "  to 
the  farmer. 

"  But  I  did  hear  as  how  Martin  gev  t'  Squire's  son  a 
fair  weltin',"  he  went  on.  "  One  o'  t'  grooms  passed 
here  an  oor  sen,  exercisin'  a  young  hoss,  an'  he  said  that 
beath  young  gentlemen  kern  yam  at  half-past  ten. 


90  The  Revellers 

Master  Frank  had  an  eye  bunged  up,  an'  a  nose  like  a 
bad  apple.  He  was  that  banged  about  that  t'  Squire 
let  him  off  a  bastin'  an*  gev  t'other  a  double  allowance." 

Mrs.  Holland  smiled. 

"  Gan  on  wi'  yer  wark,"  she  said.  "  Here's  it's  seven 
o'clock,  half  t'  day  gone,  an'  nothin'  done." 

Martin,  searching  for  stray  eggs,  suddenly  heard  a 
familiar  whistle.  He  looked  around  and  saw  Jim  Bates's 
head  over  the  top  of  the  lane  hedge. 

Jim  held  up  a  bundle. 

"  Here's  yer  coat  an'  hat,"  he  said.  "  I  dursent  bring 
'em  last  neet." 

"  Why  did  you  run  away  ? "  inquired  Martin,  ap- 
proaching to  take  his  property. 

"  I  was  skeert.  Yon  woman's  yellin'  was  awful.  I 
went  straight  off  yam." 

"  Did  you  catch  it  for  being  out  late?  " 

"  Noa ;  but  feyther  gev  me  a  clout  this  mornin'  for 
not  tellin'  him  about  t'  murder.  He'd  gone  te  bed." 

"  Nobody  was  murdered,"  said  Martin. 

"  That  wasn't  Betsy's  fault.  It's  all  my  eye  about 
Mr.  Pickerin'  stickin'  a  fork  into  hisself.  There  was 
noa  fork  there." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Coss  I  was  pullin'  carrots  all  Saturday  mornin'  for 
Mrs.  Atkinson,  an'  if  there'd  bin  any  fork  I  should  ha' 
seen  it." 

"  Martin,"  cried  a  shrill  voice  from  the  garth,  "  is 
that  lookin'  fer  eggs  ?  " 

Jim  Bates's  head  and  shoulders  shot  out  of  sight 
instantaneously. 

"  All  right,  mother,  I'm  only  getting  back  my  lost 


George  Pickering  Plays  the  Man        91 

clothes,"  explained  Martin.  He  began  a  painstaking 
survey  of  the  hedge  bottom  and  was  rewarded  by  the 
discovery  of  a  nest  of  six  hidden  away  by  a  hen  anxious 
to  undertake  the  cares  of  maternity. 

At  breakfast  John  Bolland  was  silent  and  severe. 
He  passed  but  one  remark  to  Martin: 

"  Happen  you'll  be  wanted  some  time  this  mornin*. 
Stop  within  hail  until  Mr.  Benson  calls." 

Mr.  Benson  was  the  village  constable. 

"What  will  he  want  wi'  t'  lad?"  inquired  Mrs.  Bol- 
land tartly. 

"  Martin  is  t'  main  witness  i'  this  case  o'  Pickerin's. 
Kitty  Thwaites  isn't  likely  te  tell  t'  truth.  Women  are 
main  leears  when  there's  a  man  i'  t'  business." 

"  More  fools  they." 

"  Well,  let  be.  I'm  fair  vexed  that  Martin's  neam 
should  be  mixed  up  i'  this  affair.  Fancy  the  tale  that'll 
be  i'  t'  Messenger — John  Bolland's  son  fightin'  t'  young 
squire  at  ten  o'clock  o'  t'  neet  in  t'  *  Black  Lion  '  yard — 
fightin'  ower  a  lass.  What  ailed  him  I  cannot  tell.  He 
must  ha'  gone  clean  daft." 

The  farmer  pushed  back  his  chair  angrily,  and  Mrs. 
Bolland  wondered  what  he  would  say  did  he  know  of 
Martin's  wild  extravagance.  Mother  and  son  were  glad 
when  John  picked  up  a  riding-whip  and  lumbered  out 
to  mount  Sam,  the  pony,  for  an  hour's  ride  over  the 
moor. 

Evidently,  he  had  encountered  Benson  before  break- 
fast, as  that  worthy  officer  arrived  at  half -past  ten  and 
asked  Martin  to  accompany  him. 

The  two  walked  solemnly  through  the  fair,  in  which 
there  was  already  some  stir.  A  crowd  hanging  around 


92  The  Revellers 

the  precincts  of  the  inn  made  way  as  they  approached, 
and  Martin  saw,  near  the  door,  two  saddled  horses  in 
charge  of  a  policeman. 

He  was  escorted  to  an  inner  room,  receiving  a  tremu- 
lous, but  gracious,  smile  from  Evelyn  as  he  passed.  To 
his  very  genuine  astonishment  and  alarm,  he  was  con- 
fronted not  only  by  the  district  superintendent  of  police 
but  also  by  Mr.  Frank  Reginald  de  Courcy  Beckett- 
Smythe,  the  magnate  of  the  Hall. 

"  This  is  the  boy,  your  wuship,"  said  Benson. 

"Ah.     What  is  his  name?" 

"  Martin  Court  Bolland,  sir." 

"  One  of  John  Bolland's  sons,  eh?  " 

"  No,  sir.  Mr.  Bolland  has  no  son.  He  adopted  this 
lad  some  thirteen  years  ago." 

Had  a  bolt  from  the  blue  struck  Martin  at  that 
moment  he  could  not  have  been  more  dumbfounded. 
Both  John  and  Martha  had  thought  fit  to  keep  the 
secret  of  his  parentage  from  his  knowledge  until  he  was 
older,  as  the  fact  might  tend  to  weaken  their  authority 
during  his  boyhood.  The  adults  in  Elmsdale,  of  course, 
knew  the  circumstances  thoroughly,  and  respected  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bolland's  wishes,  while  the  children  with  whom 
he  grew  up  regarded  him  as  village-born  like  themselves. 

It  took  a  good  deal  to  bring  tears  to  Martin's  eyes, 
but  they  were  perilously  near  at  that  instant.  Though 
the  words  almost  choked  him,  he  faltered: 

"Is  that  true,  Mr.  Benson?" 

"  True?    It's  true  eneuf,  lad.     Didn't  ye  know?  " 

"  No,  they  never  told  me." 

A  mist  obscured  his  sight.  The  presence  of  the  mag- 
istrate and  superintendent  ceased  to  have  any  awe- 


George  Pickering  Plays  the  Man        93V 

inspiring  effect.  What  disgrace  was  this  so  suddenly 
blurted  out  by  this  stolid  policeman?  Whose  child  was 
he,  then,  if  not  theirs  ?  Could  he  ever  hold  up  his  head 
again  in  face  of  the  youthful  host  over  which  he  lorded 
it  by  r.eason  of  his  advanced  intelligence  and  greater 
strength?  There  was  comfort  in  the  thought  that  no 
one  had  ever  taunted  him  in  this  relation.  The  veiled 
hint  in  Pickering's  words  to  the  farmer  was  the  only 
reference  he  could  recall. 

Benson  seemed  to  regard  the  facts  as  to  his  birth  as 
matters  of  common  knowledge.  Perhaps  there  was  some 
explanation  which  would  lift  him  from  the  sea  of  igno- 
miny into  which  he  had  been  pitched  so  unexpectedly. 

He  was  aroused  by  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  saying: 

"  Now,  my  lad,  was  it  you  who  fought  my  son  last 
night?" 

"  Yes — sir,"  stammered  Martin. 

The  question  sharpened  his  wits  to  some  purpose.  A 
spice  of  dread  helped  the  process.  Was  he  going  to  be 
tried  on  some  dire  charge  of  malicious  assault? 

"  Hum,"  muttered  the  squire,  surveying  him  with  a 
smile.  "  A  proper  trouncing  you  gave  him,  too.  I  shall 
certainly  thrash  him  now  for  permitting  it.  What  was 
the  cause  of  the  quarrel?  " 

"  About  a  girl,  sir." 

"  You  young  rascals !    A  girl!    What  girl?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  was  all  my  fault,  sir." 

"  That  is  not  answering  my  question." 

"  I  would  rather  not  tell,  sir." 

Then  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  laughed  heartily. 

"  Ton  my  honor,"  he  said  to   the  superintendent, 


94  The  Revellers 

"  these  young  sparks  are  progressive.  They  don't  care 
what  happens,  so  long  as  the  honor  of  the  lady  is  safe- 
guarded. My  son  refused  point-blank  to  say  even  why 
he  fought.  Well,  well,  Martin,  I  see  you  did  not  come 
out  of  the  fray  scatheless ;  but  you  are  not  brought  here 
because  you  decorated  Frank's  ingenuous  countenance. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  exactly  what  took  place  in  the 
garden  when  Mr.  Pickering  was  wounded." 

Somewhat  reassured,  Martin  told  all  he  knew,  which 
was  not  a  great  deal.  The  magistrate,  who,  of  course, 
was  only  assisting  the  police  inquiry,  was  perplexed. 

"  There  were  others  present?  "  he  commented. 

"  Yes,  sir.     Master  Frank  and  Master  Ernest " 

"  Master  Frank  could  not  see  much  at  the 
moment,  eh?  " 

Martin  blushed. 

"  But  Ernest — surely,  he  might  have  noted  something 
that  you  missed?" 

"  I  think  not,  sir.  He  was — er — looking  after  his 
brother." 

"  And  the  other  children  ?  " 

"  Several  boys  and  girls  of  the  village,  but  they  were 
frightened  by  the  screaming,  sir,  and  ran  away." 

"  Including  the  young  lady  who  caused  the  com- 
bat?" 

No  answer.  Martin  thought  it  best  to  leave  the 
point  open.  Again  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  laughed. 

"  I  suppose  this  village  belle  is  one  of  Mrs.  Atkinson's 
daughters.  Gad!  I  never  heard  tell  of  such  a  thing. 
All  right,  Martin,  you  can  go  now,  but  let  me  give  you 
a  parting  word  of  advice.  Never  again  fight  for  a 
woman,  unless  to  protect  her  from  a  blackguard,  which, 


George  Pickering  Plays  the  Man        95 

I  presume,  was  hardly  the  cause  of  the  dispute  with 
Frank." 

"  I  don't  think  he  was  to  blame  at  all,  sir." 

"  Thank  you.  Good-day,  Martin.  Here's  a  half- 
crown  to  plaster  that  damaged  lip  of  yours." 

Left  to  themselves,  the  magistrate  and  superintendent 
discussed  the  advisability  of  taking  proceedings  against 
Betsy  Thwaites. 

"  I'm  sure  Pickering  made  up  his  story  in  order  to 
screen  the  woman,"  said  the  police  officer.  "  A  rusty 
fork  was  found  in  the  stackyard,  but  it  was  thirty  feet 
away  from  the  nearest  point  of  the  track  made  by  the 
drops  of  blood,  and  separated  from  the  garden  by  a 
stout  hedge.  Moreover,  Pickering  and  Kitty  were  un- 
doubtedly standing  in  the  orchard,  many  yards  farther 
on.  Then,  again,  the  girl  was  collared  by  Thomas 
Metcalfe,  of  the  Leas  Farm,  and  the  knife,  one  of  Mrs. 
Atkinson's,  fell  from  her  hand ;  while  a  dozen  people  will 
swear  they  heard  her  sister  calling  out  that  she  had 
murdered  George  Pickering." 

Beckett-Smythe  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"  It  is  a  queer  affair,  looked  at  in  any  light.  Do  you 
think  I  ought  to  see  Pickering  himself?  You  can  arrest 
Betsy  Thwaites  without  a  warrant,  I  believe,  and,  in 
any  event,  I'll  not  sit  on  the  bench  if  the  case  comes 
before  the  court." 

The  superintendent  was  only  too  glad  to  have  the 
squire's  counsel  in  dealing  with  a  knotty  problem.  The 
social  position  of  the  wounded  man  required  some  degree 
of  caution  before  proceedings  were  commenced,  in  view 
of  his  emphatic  declaration  that  his  wound  was  self- 
inflicted.  If  his  state  became  dangerous,  there  was  only 


96  The  Revellers 

one  course  open  to  the  representatives  of  the  law;  but 
the  doctor's  verdict  was  that  penetration  of  the  lung 
had  been  averted  by  a  hair's  breadth,  and  Pickering 
would  recover.  Indeed,  he  might  be  taken  home  in  a 
carriage  at  the  end  of  the  week.  Meanwhile,  the  hay- 
fork and  the  bloodstained  knife  were  impounded. 

The  two  men  went  upstairs  and  were  shown  to  the 
room  occupied  by  the  injured  gallant.  Kitty  Thwaites, 
pale  as  a  ghost,  was  flitting  about  attending  to  her  work, 
the  hotel  being  crowded  with  stock-breeders  and  graziers. 
Her  unfortunate  sister,  even  more  woebegone  in  appear- 
ance, was  nursing  the  invalid,  at  his  special  request.  It 
was  a  puzzling  situation,  and  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe,  who 
knew  Pickering  intimately,  was  inclined  to  act  with  the 
utmost  leniency  that  the  law  allowed. 

Betsy  Thwaites,  who  was  sitting  at  the  side  of  the  bed, 
rose  when  they  entered.  Her  white  face  became  suf- 
fused with  color,  and  she  looked  at  the  police  officer 
with  frightened  eyes. 

The  magistrate  saw  this,  and  he  said  quite  kindly: 

"  If  Mr.  Pickering  is  able  to  speak  with  us  for  a  little 
while,  you  may  leave  us  with  him." 

"  No,  no,"  interrupted  the  invalid  in  an  astonishingly 
strong  and  hearty  voice.  "  There's  nothing  to  be  said 
that  Betsy  needn't  hear.  Is  there,  lass  ?  " 

She  began  to  tremble,  and  lifted  a  corner  of  her 
apron.  Notwithstanding  her  faithless  swain's  state- 
ment to  her  sister,  she  was  quite  as  good-looking  as 
Kitty,  and  sorrow  had  given  her  face  a  pathetic  dignity 
that  in  no  wise  diminished  its  charm. 

She  knew  not  whether  to  stay  or  go.  The  superin- 
tendent took  the  hint  given  by  the  squire. 


George  Pickering  Plays  the  Man        97 

"  It  would  be  best,  under  the  circumstances,  if  we  were 
left  alone  while  we  talk  over  last  night's  affair,  Mr. 
Pickering." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Don't  go,  Betsy.  What  is  there 
to  talk  over?  I  made  a  fool  of  myself — not  for  the  first 
time  where  a  woman  was  concerned — and  Betsy  here, 
brought  from  Hereford  by  a  meddlesome  scamp,  lost 
her  temper.  No  wonder!  Poor  girl,  she  had  traveled 
all  day  in  a  hot  train,  without  eatin'  a  bite,  and  found 
me  squeezing  her  sister  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
There's  no  denying  that  she  meant  to  do  me  a  mischief, 
and  serve  me  right,  too.  I'll  admit  I  was  scared,  and 
in  running  away  I  got  into  worse  trouble,  as,  of  course, 
I  could  easily  have  mastered  her.  Kitty,  too,  what  be- 
tween fear  and  shame,  lost  her  senses,  and  poor  Betsy 
cut  her  own  arm.  You  see,  a  plain  tale  stops  all  the 
nonsense  that  has  been  talked  since  ten  o'clock  last 
night." 

"  Not  quite,  George."  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  was 
serious  and  magisterial.  "  You  forget,  or  perhaps  do 
not  know,  that  there  were  witnesses." 

Pickering  looked  alarmed. 

"  Witnesses !  "  he  cried.    "  What  d'you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  no  outsider  saw  the  blow,  or  accident,  which- 
ever it  was;  but  a  number  of  children  saw  and  heard 
incidents  which,  putting  it  mildly,  tend  to  discredit 
your  story." 

Betsy  began  to  sob. 

"  I  told  you  you  had  better  leave  the  room,"  went  on 
the  squire  in  a  low  tone. 

Pickering  endeavored  to  raise  himself  in  the  bed,  but 
sank  back  with  a  groan.  The  unfortunate  girl  forgot 


98  The  Revellers 

her  own  troubles  at  the  sound,  and  rushed  to  arrange  the 
pillow  beneath  his  head. 

"  It  comes  to  this,  then,"  he  said  huskily ;  "  you  want 
to  arrest,  on  a  charge  of  attempting  to  murder  me,  a 
woman  whom  I  intend  to  marry  long  before  she  can  be 
brought  to  trial !  " 

Betsy  broke  down  now  in  real  earnest.  Beckett- 
Smythe  and  the  superintendent  gazed  at  Pickering  with 
blank  incredulity.  This  development  was  wholly  un- 
locked for.  They  both  thought  the  man  was  light- 
headed. He  smiled  dryly. 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it,"  he  continued,  placing  his  hand  on 
the  brown  hair  of  the  girl,  whose  face  was  buried  in  the 
bedclothes.  "  I — I  didn't  sleep  much  last  night,  and  I 
commenced  to  see  things  in  a  different  light  to  that 
which  presented  itself  before.  I  treated  Betsy  shame- 
fully— not  in  a  monied  sense,  but  in  every  other  way. 
She's  not  one  of  the  general  run  of  girls.  I  promised 
to  marry  her  once,  and  now  I'm  going  to  keep  my  prom- 
ise. That's  all." 

He  was  desperately  in  earnest.  Of  that  there  could 
be  no  manner  of  doubt.  The  superintendent  stroked 
his  chin  reflectively,  and  the  magistrate  could  only 
murmur : 

"  Gad,  that  changes  the  venue,  as  the  lawyers  say." 

One  thought  dominated  the  minds  of  both  men; 
Pickering  was  behaving  foolishly.  He  was  a  wealthy 
man,  owner  of  a  freehold  farm  of  hundreds  of  acres ;  he 
might  aspire  to  marry  a  woman  of  some  position  in 
the  county  and  end  his  days  in  all  the  glory  of 
J.  P.-dom  and  County  Aldermanship.  Yet,  here  he  was 
deliberately  throwing  himself  away  on  a  dairymaid  who, 


George  Pickering  Plays  the  Man        99 

not  many  hours  since,  had  striven  to  kill  him  during  a 
burst  of  jealous  fury.  The  thing  was  absurd.  Prob- 
ably when  he  recovered  he  would  see  this  for  himself; 
but  for  the  time  it  was  best  to  humor  him  and  give  offi- 
cial sanction  to  his  version  of  the  overnight  quarrel. 

"  Don't  keep  us  in  suspense,  squire,"  cried  the 
wounded  man,  angered  by  his  friend's  silence.  "  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  George ;  nothing,  I  think.  I  only  hope 
your  accident  with  the  pitchfork  will  not  have  serious 
results — in  any  shape." 

The  policeman  nodded  a  farewell.  As  they  quitted 
the  room  they  heard  Pickering  say  faintly : 

"  Now,  Betsy,  my  dear,  no  more  crying.  I  can't 
stand  it.  Damn  it  all,  one  doesn't  get  engaged  to  be 
married  and  yelp  over  it !  " 

On  the  landing  they  saw  Kitty,  a  white  shadow,  anx- 
ious, but  afraid  to  speak. 

"  Cheer  up,"  said  Beckett-Smythe  pleasantly.  "  This 
affair  looks  like  ending  in  smoke." 

Gaining  courage  from  the  magistrate's  affability, 
the  girl  said  brokenly : 

"  Mr.  Pickering  and — my — sister — are  quite  friendly. 
You  saw  that  for  yourself,  sir." 

"  Gad,  yes.  They're  going  to  be — well — er — I  was 
going  to  say  we  have  quite  decided  that  an  accident 
took  place  and  there  is  no  call  for  police  interference — 
so  long  as  Mr.  Pickering  shows  progress  toward  recov- 
ery, you  understand.  There,  there !  You  women  always 
begin  to  cry,  whether  pleased  or  vexed.  Bless  my  heart, 
let's  get  away,  Mr.  Superintendent." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
SHOWING  HOW  MARTIN'S  HORIZON  WIDENS 

THE  sufferings  of  the  young  are  strenuous  as  their 
joys.  When  Martin  passed  into  the  heart  of  the  bus- 
tling fair  its  glamour  had  vanished.  The  notes  of  the 
organ  were  harsh,  the  gay  canvas  of  the  booths  tawdry, 
the  cleanly  village  itself  awry.  The  policeman's  surprise 
at  his  lack  of  knowledge  on  the  subject  of  his  parentage 
was  disastrously  convincing.  The  man  treated  the 
statement  as  indisputable.  There  was  no  question  of 
hearsay;  it  was  just  so,  a  recognized  fact,  known  to  all 
the  grown-up  people  in  Elmsdale. 

Tommy  Beadlam,  he  of  the  white  head,  ran  after  him 
to  ask  why  the  "  bobby  "  brought  him  to  the  "  Black 
Lion,"  but  Martin  averted  eyes  laden  with  misery,  and 
motioned  his  little  friend  away. 

Tommy,  who  had  seen  the  fight,  and  knew  of  the 
squire's  presence  this  morning,  drew  his  own  conclusions. 

"  Martin's  goin'  to  be  locked  up,"  he  told  a  knot  of 
awe-stricken  youngsters,  and  they  thrilled  with  sympa- 
thy, for  their  champion's  victory  over  the  "  young  swell 
frae  t'  Hall "  was  highly  popular. 

The  front  door  of  the  White  House  stood  hospitably 
open.  Already  a  goodly  number  of  visitors  had  gath- 
ered, and  every  man  and  woman  talked  of  nothing  but 
the  dramatic  events  of  the  previous  night.  When 
Martin  arrived,  fresh  from  a  private  conversation  with 

100 


How  Martin's  Horizon  Widens       101 

the  squire  and  the  chief  of  police,  they  were  on  the 
tip-toe  of  expectancy.  Perhaps  he  might  add  to  the 
store  of  gossip.  Even  Mrs.  Bolland  felt  a  certain  pride 
that  the  boy  should  be  the  center  of  interest  in  this 
cause  celebre. 

But  his  glum  face  created  alarm  in  her  motherly 
breast. 

"  Why,  Martin,"  she  cried,  "  what's  gone  wrong? 
Ye  look  as  if  ye'd  seen  a  ghost  wi'  two  heads  !  " 

The  all-absorbing  topic  to  Martin  just  then  was  his 
own  history  and  not  the  half-comprehended  tragedy  of 
the  rural  lovers.  If  his  mother's  friends  knew  that 
which  was  hidden  from  him,  why  should  he  compel  his 
tongue  to  wag  falsely?  Somehow,  the  air  seemed  thick 
with  deception  just  now,  but  his  heart  would  have  burst 
had  he  attempted  to  restrain  the  words  that  welled  forth. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  and  his  lips  quivered  at  the  re- 
membrance that  the  affectionate  title  was  itself  a  lie, 
"  Mr.  Benson  told  the  squire  I  was  not  your  boy — that 
father  and  you  adopted  me  thirteen  years  ago." 

Mrs.  Bolland's  face  glowed  with  quick  indignation. 
No  one  spoke.  Martin's  impetuous  repudiation  of  his 
name  was  the  last  thing  they  looked  for. 

"  It  is  true,  I  suppose,"  he  went  on  despairingly. 
"  If  I  am  not  your  son,  then  whose  son  am  I?  " 

Martha  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  deceitful  scoundrels !  "  she  gasped. 
"  Te  think  of  me  fillin'  his  blue  coat  wi'  meat  an'  beer 
last  neet,  an'  all  t'  return  he  maks  is  te  worry  this  poor 
lad's  brains  wi'  that  owd  tale !  " 

"  Oh,  he's  sly,  is  Benson,"  chimed  in  stout  Mrs.  Sum- 
mersgill.  "  A  fortnight  sen  last  Tuesday  I  caught  him 


102  The  Revellers 

i'  my  dairy  wi'  one  o'  t'  maids,  lappin'  up  cream  like  a 
great  tomcat." 

A  laugh  went  round.  None  paid  heed  to  Martin's 
agony.  A  dullness  fell  on  his  soul.  Even  the  woman  he 
called  mother  was  angered  more  by  the  constable's  blurt- 
ing out  of  a  household  secret  than  by  the  destruction 
of  an  ideal.  Such,  in  confused  riot,  was  the  thought 
that  chilled  him. 

But  he  was  mistaken.  Martha  Holland's  denuncia- 
tions of  the  policeman  only  covered  the  pain,  sharp  as 
the  cut  of  a  knife,  caused  by  the  boy's  cry  of  mingled 
passion  and  sorrow.  She  was  merely  biding  her  time. 
When  chance  served,  she  called  him  into  the  larder,  the 
nearest  quiet  place  in  the  house,  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Martin,  my  lad,"  she  said,  while  big  tears  shone  in 
her  honest  eyes,  "  ye  are  dear  to  me  as  my  own.  I  trust 
I  may  be  spared  to  be  muther  te  ye  until  ye're  a  man. 
John  an'  me  meant  no  unkindness  te  ye  in  not  tellin'  ye 
we  found  ye  i'  Lunnun  streets,  a  poor,  deserted  little 
mite,  wi'  nather  feyther  nor  muther,  an'  none  te  own  ye. 
What  matter  was  it  that  ye  should  know  sooner?  Hev' 
we  not  done  well  by  ye?  When  ye  come  to  think  over  't, 
ye're  angered  about  nowt.  Kiss  me,  honey,  an'  if 
anyone  says  owt  cross  te  ye,  tell  'em  ye  hev  both  a 
feyther  an'  a  muther,  which  is  more'n  some  of  'em  can 
say." 

This  display  of  feeling  applied  balm  to  Martin's 
wounds.  Certainly  Mrs.  Bolland's  was  the  common- 
sense  view  to  take  of  the  situation.  He  forbore  to  ques- 
tion her  further  just  then,  and  nugged  her  contentedly. 
The  very  smell  of  her  lavender-scented  clothes  was  grate- 
ful, and  this  embrace  seemed  to  restore  her  to  him. 


How  Martin's  Horizon  Widens       103 

His  brightened  countenance,  the  vanishing  of  that 
unwonted  expression  of  resentful  humiliation,  was  even 
more  comforting  to  Martha  herself. 

"  Here,"  she  said,  thrusting  a  small  paper  package 
into  his  hand,  "  I  mayn't  hev  anuther  chance.  Ye'll 
find  two  pun  ten  i'  that  paper.  Gie  it  te  Mrs.  Saumarez 
an'  tell  her  I'll  be  rale  pleased  if  there's  no  more  talk 
about  t'  money.  A'  mebbe,  later  i'  t'  day,  I'll  find  a 
shillin'  fer  yersen.  But,  fer  goodness'  sake,  some  an' 
tell  t'  folk  all  that  t'  squire  said  te  ye.  They're  fair 
crazed  te  hear  ye." 

"  Mother,  dear !  "  he  cried  eagerly,  "  I  was  so — so 
mixed  up  at  first  that  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Mr.  Beckett- 
Smythe  gave  me  half  a  crown." 

"  Ye  doan't  say !  Well,  I  can't  abide  half  a  tale. 
Let's  hae  t'  lot  i'  t'  front  kitchen." 

It  was  noon,  and  dinner-time,  before  Martin  could 
satisfy  the  cackling  dames  as  to  all  within  his  cog- 
nizance concerning  Betsy  Thwaites's  escapade.  Be  it 
noted,  they  unanimously  condemned  Fred,  the  groom; 
commiserated  with  Betsy,  and  extolled  George  Picker- 
ing as  a  true  gentleman. 

P.  C.  Benson,  all  unconscious  of  the  rod  in  pickle 
for  his  broad  back,  strolled  in  about  the  eating  hour. 
Mrs.  Bolland,  brindling  with  repressed  fury,  could 
scarce  find  words  wherewith  to  scold  him. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  brazen-faced  men  I've  ever  met — " 
she  began. 

"  So  you've  heerd  t'  news  ?  "  he  interrupted. 

"Heerd?  I  should  think  so,  indeed!  Martin  kem 
yam " 


"Martin!    Did  he  know?" 


104  The  Revellers 

"  Know !  "  she  shrilled.    "  Wasn't  it  ye  as  said  it?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  he  replied  stolidly.  "  Mrs.  Atkinson 
told  me,  and  she  said  that  Mr.  Pickerin'  had  ta'en  his 
solemn  oath  te  do't  in  t'  presence  of  t'  super  and  t' 
squire ! " 

"  Do  what?  "  was  the  chorus. 

"  Why,  marry  Betsy,  to  be  sure,  as  soon  as  he  can 
be  led  te  t'  church.  What  else  is  there?  " 

This  stupendous  addition  to  the  flood  of  excitement 
carried  away  even  Martha  Bolland  for  the  moment. 
In  her  surprise  she  set  a  plate  for  Benson  with  the 
others,  and,  after  that,  the  paramount  rite  of  hos- 
pitality prevented  her  from  "  having  it  out  wi'  him  " 
until  hunger  was  sated.  Then,  however,  she  let  him 
"  feel  the  edge  of  her  tongue  " ;  he  was  so  flustered 
that  John  had  to  restore  his  mental  poise  with  another 
pint  of  ale. 

Meanwhile,  Martin  managed  to  steal  out  unobserved, 
and  made  the  best  of  his  way  to  The  Elms.  Although 
in  happier  mood,  he  was  not  wholly  pleased  with  his 
errand.  He  was  not  afraid  of  Mrs.  Saumarez — far 
from  it,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  fulfill  his  mission 
and  at  the  same  time  exonerate  Angele.  His  chivalrous 
nature  shrank  from  blaming  her,  yet  his  unaided  wits 
were  not  equal  to  the  task  of  restoring  so  much  money 
to  her  mother  without  answering  truthfully  the  resultant 
deluge  of  questions. 

He  was  battling  with  this  problem  when,  near  The 
Elms,  he  encountered  the  Rev.  Charles  Herbert,  M.A., 
vicar  of  Elmsdale,  and  his  daughter  Elsie. 

Martin  doffed  his  straw  hat  readily,  and  would  have 
passed,  but  the  vicar  hailed  him. 


How  Martin's  Horizon  Widens        105 

"  Martin,  is  it  correct  that  you  were  in  the  stable- 
yard  of  the  '  Black  Lion  '  last  night  and  saw  something 
of  this  sad  affair  of  Mr.  Pickering's  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Martin  blushed.  The  girl's  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on 
his  with  the  innocent  curiosity  of  a  fawn.  She  knew 
him  well  by  sight,  but  they  had  never  exchanged  a  word. 
He  found  himself  wondering  what  her  voice  was  like. 
Would  she  chatter  with  the  excited  volubility  of  Angele  ? 
Being  better  educated  than  he,  would  she  pour  forth  a 
jargon  of  foreign  words  and  slang?  Angele  was  quiet 
as  a  mouse  under  her  mother's  eye.  Was  Elsie  aping 
this  demure  demeanor  because  her  father  was  present? 
Certainly,  she  looked  a  very  different  girl.  Every  curve 
of  her  pretty  face,  each  line  in  her  graceful  contour,  sug- 
gested modesty  and  nice  manners.  Why,  he  couldn't 
tell,  but  he  knew  instinctively  that  Elsie  Herbert  would 
have  drawn  back  horrified  from  the  mad  romp  over- 
night, and  he  was  humbled  in  spirit  before  her. 

The  worthy  vicar  never  dreamed  that  the  farmer's 
sturdy  son  was  capable  of  deep  emotion.  He  inter- 
preted Martin's  quick  coloring  to  knowledge  of  a  dis- 
creditable episode.  He  said  to  the  girl: 

"  I'll  follow  you  home  in  a  few  minutes,  my  dear." 

Martin  thought  that  an  expression  of  disappoint- 
ment swept  across  the  clear  eyes,  but  Elsie  quitted  them 
instantly.  The  boy  had  endured  too  much  to  be  thus 
humiliated  before  one  of  his  own  age. 

"  I  would  have  said  nothing  to  offend  the  young 
lady,"  he  cried  hotly. 

Very  much  taken  aback,  Mr.  Herbert's  eyebrows 
arched  themselves  above  his  spectacles. 


106  The  Revellers 

"  My  good  boy,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  choose  that  my 
daughter  should  hear  the — er — offensive  details  of 
this — er — stabbing  affray,  or  worse,  that  took  place 
at  the  inn." 

"  But  you  didn't  mind  slighting  me  in  her  presence, 
sir,"  was  the  unexpected  retort. 

'*  I  am  not  slighting  you.  Had  I  met  Mr.  Beckett- 
Smythe  and  sought  information  as  to  this  matter,  I 
would  still  have  asked  her  to  go  on  to  the  Vicarage." 

This  was  a  novel  point  of  view  for  Martin.  He  red- 
dened again. 

"  I'm  sorry,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Everything  has  gone 
wrong  with  me  to-day.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude." 

The  vicar  deemed  him  a  strange  youth,  but  tacitly 
accepted  the  apology,  and  drew  from  Martin  the  story 
of  the  night's  doings. 

It  shocked  him  to  hear  that  Martin  and  Frank 
Beckett-Smythe  were  fighting  in  the  yard  of  the  "  Black 
Lion  "  at  such  an  hour. 

"  How  came  you  to  be  there?  "  he  said  gently.  "  You 
do  not  attend  my  church,  Martin,  but  I  have  always 
regarded  Mr.  Bolland  as  a  God-fearing  man,  and  your 
teacher  has  told  me  that  you  are  gifted  with  intelligence 
and  qualities  beyond  your  years  or  station  in  life." 

"  I  was  there  quite  by  accident,  sir,  and  I  couldn't 
avoid  the  fight." 

"What  caused  it?" 

"  We  fought  to  settle  that  question,  sir,  and  it's 
finished  now." 

The  vicar  laughed. 

"  Which  means  you  will  not  tell  me.  Well,  I  am  no 
disbeliever  in  a  manly  display  of  fisticuffs.  It  breaks 


How  Martin's  Horizon  Widens        107 

no  bones  and  saves  many  a  boy  from  the  growth  of 
worse  qualities.  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  the  fair 
this  afternoon?  " 

"No,  sir.    I'm  not." 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  how  you  will  pass  the 
time  between  now  and  supper?  " 

"  I  am  taking  a  message  from  my  mother  to  Mrs. 
Saumarez,  and  then  I'll  go  straight  to  the  Black  Plan- 
tation " — a  dense  clump  of  firs  situate  at  the  head  of 
the  ghylls,  or  small  valleys,  leading  from  the  cultivated 
land  up  to  the  moor. 

"  Dear  me !    And  what  will  you  do  there?  " 

The  boy  smiled,  somewhat  sheepishly. 

"  I  have  a  nest  in  a  tree  there,  sir,  where  I  often  sit 
and  read." 

"What  do  you  read?" 

"  Just  now,  sir,  I  am  reading  Scott's  poems." 

"  Indeed.    What  books  do  you  favor,  as  a  rule?  " 

Delighted  to  have  a  sympathetic  listener,  Martin 
forgot  his  troubles  in  pouring  forth  a  catalogue  of  his 
favorite  authors.  The  more  Mr.  Herbert  questioned 
him  the  more  eager  and  voluble  he  became.  The  boy 
had  the  rare  faculty  of  absorbing  the  joys  and  sorrows, 
the  noble  sentiments,  the  very  words  of  the  heroes  of 
romance,  and  in  this  scholarly  gentleman  he  found  an 
auditor  who  appreciated  all  that  was  hitherto  dumb 
thought. 

Several  people  passing  along  the  road  wondered 
what  "  t'  passon  an'  oad  John  Bolland's  son  were 
makkin'  sike  deed  about,"  and  the  conversation  must 
have  lasted  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  when  the  vicar 
heard  the  chimes  of  the  church  clock. 


108  The  Revellers 

He  laughed  genially.  Although,  on  his  part,  there 
was  an  underlying  motive  in  the  conversation,  Martin 
had  fairly  carried  it  far  afield. 

"  You  have  had  your  revenge  on  me  for  sending  my 
daughter  away,"  he  cried.  "  My  lunch  will  be  cold. 
Now,  will  you  do  me  a  favor?  " 

"  Of  course,  sir ;  anything  you  ask." 

"  Nay,  Martin,  make  that  promise  to  no  man.  But 
this  lies  within  your  scope.  About  four  o'clock  leave 
your  crow's  nest  and  drop  over  to  Thor  ghyll.  I  may 
be  there." 

Overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  a  renewed  chat  on 
topics  dear  to  his  heart,  the  boy  ran  off,  light-heartedly, 
to  The  Elms.  His  task  seemed  easier  now.  The  whole- 
some breeze  of  intercourse  with  a  cultivated  mind  had 
momentarily  swept  into  the  background  a  host  of  un- 
pleasing  things. 

He  found  he  could  not  see  Mrs.  Saumarez,  so  he 
asked  for  Miss  Walker.  The  lady  came.  She  was  prim 
and  severe.  Instantly  he  detected  a  note  of  hostility 
which  her  first  words  put  beyond  doubt. 

"  My  mother  sent  me  to  return  some  money  to  Mrs. 
Saumarez,"  he  explained. 

"  Mrs.  Saumarez  is  ill.  Mrs.  Bolland  must  wait  until 
she  recovers.  As  for  you,  you  bad  boy,  I  wonder  you 
dare  show  your  face  here." 

Martin  never  flinched  from  a  difficulty. 

"  Why?  "  he  demanded.    "  What  have  I  done?  " 

"  Can  you  ask?  To  drag  that  poor  little  mite  of  a 
girl  into  such  horrible  scenes  as  those  which  took  place 
in  the  village?  Be  off!  You  just  wait  until  Mrs. 
Saumarez  is  better,  and  you  will  hear  more  of  it." 


How  Martin's  Horizon  Widens       109 

With  that,  she  slammed  the  door  on  him. 

So  Angele  had  posed  as  a  simpleton,  and  he  was  the 
villain.  This  phase  of  the  medley  amused  him.  He  was 
retreating  down  the  drive,  when  he  heard  his  name 
called.  He  turned.  A  window  on  the  ground  floor 
opened,  and  Mrs.  Saumarez  appeared,  leaning  unsteadily 
on  the  sill. 

"  Come  here ! "  she  cried  imperiously. 

Somehow  she  puzzled,  indeed  flustered,  him.  For  one 
thing,  her  attire  was  bizarre.  Usually  dressed  with 
unexceptionable  taste,  to-day  she  wore  a  boudoir  wrap — 
a  costly  robe,  but  adjusted  without  care,  and  all  untidy 
about  neck  and  breast.  Her  hair  was  coiled  loosely, 
and  stray  wisps  hung  out  in  slovenly  fashion.  Her 
face,  deathly  white,  save  for  dull  red  patches  on  the 
cheeks,  served  as  a  fit  setting  for  unnaturally  brilliant 
eyes  which  protuded  from  their  sockets  in  a  manner 
quite  startling,  while  the  veins  on  her  forehead  stood 
out  like  whipcord. 

Martin  was  utterly  dismayed.  He  stood  stock- 
still. 

"  Come ! "  she  said  again,  glaring  at  him  with  a 
curious  fixity.  "  I  want  you.  Fran9oise  is  not  here, 
and  I  wish  you  to  run  an  errand." 

Save  for  a  strange  thickness  in  her  speech,  she  had 
never  before  reminded  him  so  strongly  of  Angele.  She 
had  completely  lost  her  customary  air  of  repose.  She 
spoke  and  acted  like  a  peevish  child. 

Anyhow,  she  had  summoned  him,  and  he  could  now 
discharge  his  trust.  In  such  conditions,  Martin  seldom 
lacked  words. 

"  I  asked  for  you  at  the  door,  ma'am,"  he  explained, 


110  The  Revellers 

drawing  nearer,  "  but  Miss  Walker  said  you  were  ill. 
My  mother  sent  me  to  give  you  this." 

He  produced  the  little  parcel  of  money  and  essayed 
to  hand  it  to  her.  She  surveyed  it  with  lackluster  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said.  "I  do  not  understand. 
Here  is  plenty  of  money.  I  want  you  to  go  to  the 
village,  to  the  '  Black  Lion,'  and  bring  me  a  sovereign's 
worth  of  brandy." 

She  held  out  a  coin.  They  stood  thus,  proffering  each 
other  gold. 

"  But  this  is  yours,  ma'am.  I  came  to  return  it. 
I — er — borrowed  some  money  from  Ang — from  Miss 
Saumarez — and  mother  said " 

"  Cease,  boy.  I  do  not  understand,  I  tell  you.  Keep 
the  money  and  bring  me  what  I  ask." 

In  her  eagerness  she  leaned  so  far  out  of  the  window 
that  she  nearly  overbalanced.  The  sovereign  fell  among 
some  flowers.  With  an  effort  she  recovered  an  unsteady 
poise.  Martin  stooped  to  find  the  money.  A  door 
opened  inside  the  house.  A  hot  whisper  reached  him. 

"  Tell  no  one.  I'll  watch  for  you  in  half  an  hour — re- 
member— a  sovereign's  worth." 

The  boy,  not  visible  from  the  far  side  of  the  room, 
heard  the  voice  of  Fran9oise.  The  window  closed  with 
a  bang.  He  discovered  the  coin  and  straightened  him- 
self. The  maid  was  seating  her  mistress  in  a  chair  and 
apparently  remonstrating  with  her.  She  picked  up 
from  the  floor  a  wicker-covered  Eau  de  Cologne  bottle 
and  turned  it  upside  down  with  an  angry  gesture.  It 
was  empty. 

Martin,  whose  experience  of  intoxicated  people  was 
confined  to  the  infrequent  sight  of  a  village  toper,  heavy 


How  Martin's  Horizon  Widens       111 

with  beer,  lurching  homeward  in  maudlin  glee  or  fury, 
imagined  that  Mrs.  Saumarez  must  be  in  some  sort  of 
fever.  Obviously,  those  in  attendance  on  her  should 
be  consulted  before  he  brought  her  brandy  secretly. 

Back  he  marched  to  the  front  door  and  rang  the  bell. 
Lest  Miss  Walker  should  shut  him  out  again,  he  was 
inside  the  hall  before  anyone  could  answer  his  summons, 
for  the  doors  of  country  houses  remain  unlocked  all 
day.  The  elder  sister  reappeared,  very  starchy  at  this 
unheard-of  impertinence. 

"  I  was  forced  to  return,  ma'am,"  he  said  civilly. 
"  Mrs.  Saumarez  saw  me  in  the  drive  and  asked  me  to 
buy  her  some  brandy.  She  gave  me  a  sovereign.  She 
looked  very  ill,  so  I  thought  it  best  to  come  and  tell 
you." 

The  lady  was  thoroughly  nonplussed  by  this  plain 
statement. 

"  Oh,"  she  stammered,  so  confused  that  he  did  not 
know  what  to  make  of  her  agitation,  "  this  is  very  nice 
of  you.  She  must  not  have  brandy.  It  is — quite  un- 
suitable— for  her  illness.  It  is  really  very  good  of  you 
to  tell  me.  I — er — I'm  sorry  I  spoke  so  harshly  just 
now,  but — er " 

"  That's  all  right,  ma'am.  It  was  all  a  mistake. 
Will  you  kindly  take  charge  of  this  sovereign,  and  also 
of  the  two  pounds  ten  which  Miss  Angele  lent  me  ?  " 

"  Which  Miss  Angele  lent  you !  Two  pounds  ten ! 
I  thought  you  said  your  mother " 

"  It  is  mine,  please,"  said  a  voice  from  the  broad 
landing  above  their  heads.  Angele  skipped  lightly  down 
the  stairs  and  held  out  her  hand.  Martin  gave  her  the 
money. 


112  The  Revellers 

"  I  don't  understand  this,  at  all,"  said  the  mystified 
Miss  Walker.  "  Does  Mrs.  Saumarez  know " 

"  Mrs.  Saumarez  knows  nothing.  Neither  does 
Martin." 

With  wasp-like  suddenness,  the  girl  turned  and  faced 
a  woman  old  enough  to  be  her  grandmother.  Their 
eyes  clashed.  The  child's  look  said  plainly: 

"  Dare  to  utter  another  word  and  I'll  disgrace  your 
house  throughout  the  village." 

The  woman  yielded.  She  waved  a  protesting  hand. 
"  It  is  no  business  of  mine.  Thank  you,  Martin,  for 
coming  back." 

Angele  lashed  out  at  him  next. 

"  Allez,  done !    I'll  never  speak  to  you  again." 

She  ran  up  the  stairs.    He  stood  irresolute. 

"  Anyhow,  not  now,"  she  added.  "  I  may  be  out  in 
an  hour's  time." 

Miss  Walker  was  holding  the  door  open.  He  hurried 
away,  and  Fran9oise  saw  him,  wondering  why  he  had 
called. 

And  for  hours  thereafter,  until  night  fell,  a  white- 
faced  woman  paced  restlessly  to  and  fro  in  the  sitting- 
room,  ever  and  anon  raising  the  window,  and  watching 
for  Martin's  return  with  a  fierce  intensity  that  ren- 
dered her  almost  maniacal  in  appearance. 

Happily,  the  boy  was  unaware  of  the  pitiful  tragedy 
in  the  life  of  the  rich  and  highly  placed  Mrs.  Saumarez. 
While  she  waited,  with  a  rage  steadily  dwindling  into 
a  wearied  despair,  he  was  passing,  all  unconsciously, 
into  the  next  great  phase  of  his  career. 

He  took  one  forward  step  into  the  unknown  before 
leaving  the  tree-lined  drive.  He  met  Fritz,  the  chauf- 


How  Martin's  Horizon  Widens        113 

feur,  who  was  so  absorbed  in  the  study  of  a  folding 
road-map  that  he  did  not  see  Martin  until  the  latter 
hailed  him. 

"  Hello !  "  was  the  boy's  cheery  greeting.  "  That 
affair  is  ended.  Please  don't  say  anything  to  Mrs. 
Saumarez." 

The  German  closed  the  map. 

"  Whad  iss  ented?"  he  inquired,  surveying  Martin 
with  a  cool  hauteur  rare  in  chauffeurs. 

"  Why,  last  night's  upset  in  the  village." 

"  Ah,  yez.     Id  iss  nod  my  beeznez." 

"  I  didn't  quite  mean  that.  But  there's  no  use  in 
getting  Miss  Angele  into  a  row,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Dat  iss  zo.    Vere  do  you  leeve?  " 

"  At  the  White  House  Farm." 

"  Vere  de  brize  caddie  are  ?  " 

Martin  smiled.  He  had  never  before  heard  English 
spoken  with  a  strong  German  accent.  Somehow  he 
associated  these  resonant  syllables  with  a  certain  in- 
definite stress  which  Mrs.  Saumarez  laid  on  a  few  words. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.    "  My  father's  herd  is  well  known." 

Fritz's  manner  became  genial. 

"  Zome  tay  you  vill  show  me,  yez  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  I'll  be  very  pleased.  And  will  you  explain  your  car 
to  me — the  engine,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Komm  now." 

"  Sorry,  but  I  have  an  engagement." 

There  was  plenty  of  time  at  Martin's  disposal,  but 
he  did  not  want  to  loiter  about  The  Elms  that  after- 
noon. This  man  was  a  paid  servant  who  could  hardly 
refuse  to  carry  out  any  reasonable  order,  and  it  would 
have  been  awkward  for  Martin  if  Mrs.  Saumarez  asked 


114  The  Revellers 

him  to  give  Fritz  the  sovereign  she  had  intrusted  to 
his  keeping. 

"  All  a-right,"  agreed  the  chauffeur,  whose  strong, 
intellectual  face  was  now  altogether  amiable;  in  fact,  a 
white  scar  on  his  left  cheek  creased  so  curiously  when 
he  grinned  that  his  aspect  was  almost  comical.  "  We 
vill  meed  when  all  dis  noise  sdops,  yez?  "  and  he  waved 
a  hand  toward  the  distant  drone  of  the  fair. 

Thus  began  for  Martin  another  strange  friendship — 
a  friendship  destined  to  end  so  fantastically  that  if  the 
manner  of  its  close  were  foretold  then  and  there  by  any 
prophet,  the  mere  telling  might  have  brought  the  seer 
to  the  madhouse. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  WILDCAT 

i 

IT  was  nearly  three  o'clock  when  Martin  re-entered 
the  village.  Outside  the  boxing  booth  a  huge  placard 
announced,  in  sprawling  characters,  that  the  first  round 
of  the  boxing  competition  would  start  punctually  at 
3  P.M.  "  Owing  to  the  illness  of  Mr.  George  Pickering, 
deeply  regretted,"  another  referee  would  be  appointed. 

It  cost  the  boy  a  pang  to  stride  on.  He  would  have 
dearly  liked  to  watch  the  display  of  pugilism.  He 
might  have  gone  inside  the  tent  for  an  hour  and  still 
kept  his  tryst  with  Mr.  Herbert,  but  John  Bolland's 
dour  teaching  had  scored  grooves  in  his  consciousness 
not  readily  effaced.  The  folly  of  last  night  must  be 
atoned  in  some  way,  and  he  punished  himself  deliber- 
ately now  by  going  straight  home. 

The  house  was  only  a  little  less  thronged  than  the 
"  Black  Lion,"  so  he  made  his  way  unobserved  to  the 
great  pile  of  dry  bracken  in  which  he  hid  books  bor- 
rowed from  the  school  library.  Ten  minutes  later  he 
was  seated  in  the  fork  of  a  tree  full  thirty  feet  from 
the  ground  and  consoling  himself  for  loss  of  the  reality 
by  reading  of  a  fight  far  more  picturesque  in  detail — the 
Homeric  combat  between  FitzJames  and  Roderick  Dhu. 

From  his  perch  he  could  see  the  church  clock.  Shortly 
before  the  appointed  hour  he  climbed  down  and  sur- 
mounted the  ridge  which  divided  the  Black  Plantation 

115 


116  The  Revellers 

from  Thor  ghyll.  It  was  a  rough  passage,  naught  save 
gray  rock  and  flowering  ling,  or  heather,  growing  so 
wild  and  bushy  that  in  parts  it  overtopped  his  height. 
But  Martin  was  sure-footed  as  a  goat.  Across  the 
plateau  and  down  the  tree-clad  slope  on  the  other  side 
he  sped,  until  he  reached  a  point  whence  he  could 
obtain  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  winding  glen. 

On  a  stretch  of  turf  by  the  side  of  the  silvery  beck 
that  rushed  so  frantically  from  the  moorland  to  the 
river,  he  spied  a  small  garden  tent.  In  front  was  a 
table  spread  with  china  and  cakes,  while  a  copper  kettle, 
burnished  so  brightly  that  it  shone  like  gold  in  the  sun- 
light, was  suspended  over  a  spirit  lamp.  Mr.  Herbert 
was  there,  and  an  elderly  lady,  his  aunt,  who  acted  as 
his  housekeeper — also  Elsie  and  her  governess  and  two 
young  gentlemen  who  "  read  "  with  the  vicar  during  the 
long  vacation.  Evidently  a  country  picnic  was  toward ; 
Martin  was  at  a  loss  to  know  why  he  had  been  invited. 

Perhaps  they  wished  him  to  guide  them  over  the  moor 
to  some  distant  glen  or  to  the  early  British  camp  two 
miles  away.  Sometimes  a  tourist  wandering  through 
Elmsdale  called  at  the  farm  for  information,  and 
Martin  would  be  dispatched  with  the  inquirer  to  show 
the  way. 

It  was  a  pity  that  Mr.  Herbert  had  not  mentioned 
his  desire,  as  the  daily  reading  of  the  Bible  was  due  in 
an  hour,  and  most  certainly,  to-day  of  all  days,  Martin 
must  be  punctual. 

If  his  brain  were  busy,  his  eye  was  clear.  He  sprang 
from  rock  to  rock  like  a  chamois.  Once  he  swung  him- 
self down  a  small  precipice  by  the  tough  root  of  a  whin. 
He  knew  the  root  was  there,  and  had  already  tested  its 


The  Wildcat  lir 

capabilities,  but  the  gathering  beneath  watched  him  with 
dismay,  for  the  feat  looked  hazardous  in  the  extreme. 
In  a  couple  of  minutes  he  had  descended  two  hundred 
feet  of  exceedingly  rough  going.  He  stopped  at  the  beck 
to  wash  his  hands  and  dry  them  on  his  handkerchief. 
Then  he  approached  the  group. 

"  Do  you  always  descend  the  ghyll  in  that  fashion, 
Martin  ?  "  cried  the  vicar. 

"  Yes,  sir.    It  is  the  nearest  way." 

"  A  man  might  say  that  who  fell  out  of  a  balloon." 

"  But  I  have  been  up  and  down  there  twenty  times, 
sir." 

"  Well,  well ;  my  imaginary  balloonist  could  make  no 
such  answer.  Sit  down  and  have  some  tea.  Elsie,  this 
is  young  Martin  Bolland,  of  whom  I  have  been  telling 
you." 

The  girl  smiled  in  a  very  friendly  way  and  brought 
Martin  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  plate  of  cakes.  So  he  was  a 
guest,  and  introduced  by  the  vicar  to  his  daughter! 
How  kind  this  was  of  Mr.  Herbert !  How  delighted 
Mrs.  Bolland  would  be  when  she  heard  of  it,  for,  how- 
ever strict  her  Nonconformity,  the  vicar  was  still  a 
social  power  in  the  village,  and  second  only  to  the 
Beckett-Smythes  in  the  estimation  of  the  parish. 

At  first  poor  Martin  was  tongue-tied.  He  answered 
in  monosyllables  when  the  vicar  or  Mrs.  Johnson,  the 
old  lady,  spoke  to  him ;  but  to  Elsie  he  said  not  a  word. 
She,  too,  was  at  a  loss  how  to  interest  him,  until  she 
noticed  a  book  in  his  pocket.  When  told  that  it  was 
Scott's  poems  she  said  pleasantly  that  a  month  ago 
she  went  with  her  father  to  a  place  called  Greta  Bridge 
and  visited  many  of  the  scenes  described  in  "  Rokeby." 


118  The  Revellers 

Unhappily,  Martin  had  not  read  "  Rokeby."  He 
resolved  to  devour  it  at  the  first  opportunity,  but  for 
the  nonce  it  offered  no  conversational  handle.  He  re- 
mained dumb,  yet  all  the  while  he  was  comparing  Elsie 
with  Angele,  and  deciding  privately  that  girls  brought 
up  as  ladies  in  England  were  much  nicer  than  those 
reared  in  the  places  which  Angele  named  so  glibly. 

But  his  star  was  propitious  that  day.  One  of  the 
young  men  happened  to  notice  a  spot  where  a  large 
patch  of  heather  had  been  sliced  off  the  face  of  the  moor. 

He  asked  Mr.  Herbert  what  use  the  farmers  made 
of  it. 

"  Nothing  that  I  can  recall,"  said  the  vicar,  a  man 
who,  living  in  the  country,  knew  little  of  its  ways; 
"  perhaps  Martin  can  tell  you." 

"  We  make  besoms  of  it,  sir,"  was  the  ready  reply, 
"  but  that  space  has  been  cleared  by  the  keepers  so  that 
the  young  grouse  may  have  fresh  green  shoots  to 
feed  on." 

Here  was  a  topic  on  which  he  was  crammed  with  in- 
formation. His  face  grew  animated,  his  eyes  sparkled, 
the  words  came  fast  and  were  well  chosen.  As  he  spoke, 
the  purple  moor,  the  black  firs,  the  meadows,  the  corn 
land  red  with  poppies,  became  peopled  with  fur  and 
feather.  On  the  hilltops  the  glorious  black  cock,  in 
the  woods  the  dandy  pheasant  and  swift  pigeon,  among 
the  meadows  and  crops  the  whirring  partridge,  became 
actualities,  present,  but  unseen.  There  were  plenty  of 
hares  on  the  arable  land  and  the  rising  ground;  as  for 
rabbits,  they  swarmed  everywhere. 

"  This  ghyll  will  be  alive  with  them  in  little  more 
than  an  hour,"  said  Martin  confidently.  "  I  shouldn't 


The  Wildcat  119 

be  surprised,  if  we  had  a  dog  and  put  him  among  those 
whins,  but  half-a-dozen  rabbits  would  bolt  out  in  all 
directions." 

"  Please,  can  I  be  a  little  bow-wow?  "  cried  Elsie. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran  toward  the  clump  of 
gorse  and  bracken  he  had  pointed  out,  imitating  a  dog's 
bark  as  she  went. 

"  Take  care  of  the  thorns,"  shouted  Martin,  making 
after  her  more  leisurely. 

She  paused  on  the  verge  of  the  tangled  mass  of  vege- 
tation and  said,  "  Shoo !  " 

"  That's  no  good,"  he  laughed.  "  You  must  walk 
through  and  kick  the  thick  clumps  of  grass — this  way." 

He  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  gorse.  She  fol- 
lowed. Not  a  rabbit  budged. 

"  That's  odd,"  he  said,  rustling  the  undergrowth  vig- 
orously. "  There  ought  to  be  a  lot  here." 

"  You  know  Angele  Saumarez  ?  "  said  the  girl  sud- 
denly. 

"  Yes." 

He  ceased  beating  the  bushes  and  looked  at  her 
fixedly,  the  question  was  so  unexpected.  Yet  Angele 
had  asked  him  the  selfsame  question  concerning  Elsie 
Herbert.  One  girl  resembled  another  as  two  peas  in 
a  pod. 

"  Do  you  like  her?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,  sometimes." 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  pretty?  " 

"  Yes,  often." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  *  sometimes,' (  often?  '  How 
can  a  girl  be  pretty — '  often  '?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  think  she  is  nice  in  many  ways,  and 


120  The  Revellers 

that  if — she  knew  you — and  copied  your  manner — your 
voice,  and  style,  and  behavior — she  would  improve  very 
greatly." 

Martin  had  recovered  his  wits.  Elsie  tittered  and 
blushed  slightly. 

"  Really ! "  she  said,  and  recommenced  the  kicking 
process  with  ardor. 

Suddenly,  with  a  fierce  snarl,  an  animal  of  some  sort 
flew  at  her.  She  had  a  momentary  vision  of  a  pair  of 
blazing  eyes,  bared  teeth,  and  extended  claws.  She 
screamed  and  turned  her  head.  In  that  instant  a  wild- 
cat landed  on  her  back  and  a  vicious  claw  reached  for 
her  face.  But  Martin  was  at  her  side.  Without  a  sec- 
ond's hesitation  he  seized  the  growling  brute  in  both 
hands  and  tore  it  from  off  her  shoulders.  His  right 
hand  was  around  its  neck,  but  he  strove  in  vain  to  grasp 
the  small  of  its  back  in  the  left.  It  wriggled  and 
scratched  with  the  ferocity  of  an  undersized  tiger. 
Martin's  coat  sleeves  and  shirt  were  slashed  to  shreds, 
his  waistcoat  was  rent,  and  deep  gashes  were  cut  in  his 
arms,  but  he  held  on  gamely. 

Mr.  Herbert  and  the  others  ran  up,  but  came  unarmed. 
They  had  not  even  a  stick.  The  vicar,  with  some  pres- 
ence of  mind,  rushed  back  and  wrenched  a  leg  from  the 
camp  table,  but  by  the  time  he  returned  the  cat  was 
moving  its  limbs  in  its  final  spasms,  for  Martin  had 
choked  it  to  death. 

The  vicar  danced  about  with  his  improvised  weapon, 
imploring  the  boy  to  "  throw  it  down  and  let  me  whack 
the  life  out  of  it,"  but  Martin  was  enraged  with  the 
pain  and  the  damage  to  his  clothing.  In  his  anger  he 
felt  that  he  could  wrench  the  wretched  beast  limb  from 


The  Wildcat  121 

limb,  and  he  might  have  endeavored  to  do  that  very 
thing  were  it  not  for  the  presence  of  Elsie  Herbert.  As 
it  was,  when  the  cat  fell  to  the  ground  its  struggles  had 
ended,  but  Mr.  Herbert  gave-it  a  couple  of  hearty  blows 
to  make  sure. 

It  was  a  tremendous  brute,  double  the  size  of  its 
domestic  progenitors.  At  one  period  in  its  career  it 
had  been  caught  in  a  rabbit  trap,  for  one  of  its  forelegs 
was  removed  at  the  joint,  and  the  calloused  stump  was 
hard  as  a  bit  of  stone. 

A  chorus  of  praise  for  Martin's  promptitude  and 
courage  was  cut  short  when  he  took  the  table  leg  and 
went  back  to  the  clump  of  gorse. 

"  I  thought  it  was  curious  that  there  were  no  rabbits 
here,"  he  said.  "  Now  I  know  why.  This  cat  has-  a 
litter  of  kittens  hidden  among  the  whins." 

"  Are  you  gug-gug-going  to  kuk-kuk-kill  them  ?  " 
sobbed  Elsie. 

He  paused  in  his  murderous  search. 

"  It  makes  no  matter  now,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  I'll 
tell  the  keeper.  Wildcats  eat  up  an  awful  lot  of  game." 

His  coolness,  his  absolute  disregard  of  the  really 
serious  cuts  he  had  received,  were  astounding  to  the 
town-bred  men.  The  vicar  was  the  first  to  recover  some 
degree  of  composure. 

"  Martin,"  he  cried,  "  come  this  instant  and  have 
your  wounds  washed  and  bound  up.  You  are  losing  a 
great  deal  of  blood,  and  that  brute's  claws  may  have 
been  venomous." 

The  boy  obeyed  at  once.  He  presented  a  sorry  spec- 
tacle. His  arms  and  hands  were  bathed  in  blood  and 
his  clothes  were  splashed  with  it. 


122  The  Revellers 

Elsie  Herbert's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  This  is  nothing,"  he  said  to  cheer  her.  "  They're 
only  scratches,  but  they  look  bad." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  did  not  realize  until  long 
afterwards  that  were  it  not  for  the  fortunate  accident 
which  deprived  the  cat  of  her  off  foreleg,  some  of  the 
tendons  of  his  right  wrist  might  have  been  severed. 
From  the  manner  in  which  he  held  her  she  could  not  get 
the  effective  claws  to  bear  crosswise. 

The  vicar  looked  grave  when  a  first  dip  in  the  brook 
revealed  the  extent  of  the  boy's  injuries. 

"  You  are  plucky  enough  to  bear  the  application  of 
a  little  brine,  Martin?  "  he  said. 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  emptied  the  con- 
tents of  a  paper  of  salt  into  a  teacup  and  dissolved  it  in 
hot  water.  Then  he  washed  the  wounds  again  in  the 
brook  and  bound  them  with  handkerchiefs  soaked  in  the 
mixture.  It  was  a  rough-and-ready  cauterization,  and 
the  pain  made  Martin  white,  but  later  on  it  earned  the 
commendation  of  the  doctor.  Mr.  Herbert  was  pallid 
himself  when  Elsie  handed  him  the  last  handkerchief 
they  could  muster,  while  Mrs.  Johnson  was  already 
tearing  the  tablecloth  into  strips. 

"  It  is  bad  enough  to  have  your  wrists  scored  in  this 
way,  my  lad,"  he  murmured,  "  but  it  will  be  some  conso- 
lation for  you  to  know  that  otherwise  these  cuts  would 
have  been  in  my  little  girl's  face,  perhaps  her  eyes — 
great  Heaven ! — her  eyes !  " 

The  vicar  could  have  chosen  no  better  words.  Mar- 
tin's heart  throbbed  with  pride.  At  last  the  bandages 
were  secured  and  the  tattered  sleeve  turned  down.  All 


The  Wildcat  123 

this  consumed  nearly  half  an  hour,  and  then  Martin 
remembered  a  forgotten  duty. 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  "  he  said  anxiously. 

"  A  quarter  past  five." 

"  Oh,  bother !  "  he  murmured.  "  I'll  get  into  another 
row.  I  have  missed  my  Bible  lesson." 

"Your  Bible  lesson?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  My  father  makes  me  read  a  portion  of 
Scripture  every  day." 

The  vicar  passed  unnoticed  the  boy's  unconsciously 
resentful  tone.  He  sighed,  but  straightway  resumed  his 
wonted  cheeriness. 

"  There  will  be  no  row  to-day,  Martin,"  he  promised. 
"  We  shall  escort  you  home  in  triumphal  procession. 
We  leave  the  things  here  for  my  man,  who  will  bring 
a  pony  and  cart  in  a  few  minutes.  Now,  you  two,  tie 
the  hind  legs  of  that  beast  with  a  piece  of  string  and 
carry  it  on  the  stick.  The  cat  is  Martin's  spolia  opima. 
Here,  Elsie,  guide  your  warrior's  faltering  footsteps 
down  the  glen." 

They  all  laughed,  but  by  the  time  they  reached  the 
White  House  the  boy  was  ready  to  drop,  for  he  had 
lost  a  quantity  of  blood,  and  the  torment  of  the  saline 
solution  was  becoming  intolerable. 

John  Bolland,  after  waiting  with  growing  impatience 
long  after  the  appointed  time,  closed  the  Bible  with  a 
bang  and  went  downstairs. 

"  What's  wrang  wi'  ye  now?  "  inquired  his  spouse  as 
he  dropped  morosely  into  a  chair  and  answered  but 
sourly  a  hearty  greeting  from  a  visitor. 
"Where's  that  lad?"  he  growled. 

"Martin.     Hasn't  he  come  yam?" 


124  The  Revellers 

She  trembled  for  her  adopted  son's  remissness  on 
this,  the  first  day  after  the  great  rebellion. 

"  Yam !  " — with  intense  bitterness — "  he's  not  likely 
te  hearken  te  t'  Word  when  he's  encouraged  in  guile." 

"  Eh,  but  there's  some  good  cause  this  time,"  cried 
the  old  lady,  more  flustered  than  she  cared  to  show. 
"  Happen  he's  bin  asked  to  see  t'  squire  again." 

"  T'  squire  left  Elmsdale  afore  noon,"  was  the  gruff 
reply. 

Then  the  vicar  entered,  and  Elsie,  leading  Martin, 
and  the  two  pupils  carrying  the  gigantic  cat.  Mrs. 
Johnson  and  the  governess-companion  had  remained 
with  the  tent  and  would  drive  home  in  the  dog-cart. 

Mr.  Herbert's  glowing  account  of  Martin's  conduct, 
combined  with  a  judicious  reference  to  his  anxiety  when 
he  discovered  that  the  hour  for  his  lesson  had  passed, 
placed  even  Bolland  in  a  good  humor.  Once  again  the 
boy  filled  the  mouths  of  the  multitude,  since  nothing 
would  serve  the  farmhands  but  they  must  carry 
off  the  cat  to  the  fair  for  exhibition  before  they 
skinned  it. 

The  doctor  came,  waylaid  on  his  return  from  the 
"  Black  Lion."  He  removed  the  salt-soaked  bandages, 
washed  the  wounds  in  tepid  water,  examined  them  care- 
fully, and  applied  some  antiseptic  dressing,  of  which  he 
had  a  supply  in  his  dog-cart  for  the  benefit  of  George 
Pickering. 

"An'  how  is  Mr.  Pickerin'  te-night?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Bolland,  who  was  horrified  at  first  by  the  sight  of 
Martin's  damages,  but  reassured  when  the  doctor  said 
the  boy  would  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two. 

"  Not  so  well,  Mrs.  Bolland,"  was  the  answer. 


The  Wildcat  125 

"  Oh,  ye  don't  say  so.  Poor  chap !  Is  it  wuss  than 
ye  feared  for  ?  " 

"  No ;  the  wound  is  progressing  favorably,  but  he  is 
feverish.  I  don't  like  that.  Fever  is  weakening." 

No  more  would  the  doctor  say,  and  Mrs.  Bolland  soon 
forgot  the  sufferings  of  another  in  her  distress  at 
Martin's  condition.  She  particularly  lamented  that  he 
should  be  laid  up  during  the  Feast. 

At  that  the  patient  laughed. 

"  Surely  I  can  go  out,  doctor !  "  he  cried. 

"  Go  out,  you  imp !  Of  course,  you  can.  But,  remem- 
ber, no  larking  about  and  causing  these  cuts  to  reopen. 
Better  stay  in  the  house  until  I  see  you  in  the  morning." 

So  Martin,  fearless  of  consequences,  hunted  up 
"  Rokeby,"  and  read  it  with  an  interest  hardly  lessened 
by  the  fact  that  that  particular  poem  is  the  least  excit- 
ing of  the  magician's  verse.  At  last  the  light  failed 
and  the  table  was  laid  for  supper,  so  the  boy's  reading 
was  disturbed.  More  than  once  he  fancied  he  had  heard 
at  the  back  of  the  house  a  long,  shrill  whistle  which 
sounded  familar.  Curiosity  led  him  to  the  meadow. 
He  waited  a  little  while,  and  again  the  whistle  came 
from  the  lane. 

"Who  is  it?  "he  called. 

"Me.     Is  that  you,  Martin?" 

"  Me  "  was  Tommy  Beadlam,  but  his  white  top  did 
not  shine  in  the  dark. 

"What's  up?" 

"  Come  nearer.    I  mustn't  shout." 

Wondering  what  mystery  was  afoot,  Martin  ap- 
proached the  hedge. 

"  Yon  lass,"  whispered  Tommy — "  I  can't  say  her 


126  The  Revellers 

name,  but  ye  ken  fine  whea  'tis — she's  i'  t'  fair  ageean." 

"What!    Angele?" 

"  That's  her.  She  gemme  sixpence  te  coom  an'  tell 
yer.  I've  bin  whistlin'  till  me  lips  is  sore." 

"  You  tell  her  from  me  she  is  a  bad  girl  and  ought  to 
go  home  at  once." 

"  Not  me !    She'd  smack  my  feace." 

"  Well,  I  can't  get  out.  I've  had  an  accident  and 
must  go  t'o  bed  soon." 

"  There's  a  rare  yarn  about  you  an'  a  cat.  I  seed  it. 
Honest  truth — did  you  really  kill  it  wi'  your  hands  ?  " 

"  Yes;  but  it  gave  me  something  first.  Can  you  see? 
My  arms  and  left  hand  are  all  bound  up." 

"  An'  it  jumped  fust  on  Elsie  Herbert?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  An'  yer  grabbed  it  off  en  her?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Gosh !  Yon  lass  is  fair  wild  te  hear  all  about  it. 
She  greeted  when  Evelyn  Atkinson  telt  her  yer  were 
nearly  dead,  but  yan  o'  t'  farmhands  kem  along  an'  we 
axed  him,  an'  he  said  ye  were  nowt  worse." 

Martin's  heart  softened  when  he  heard  of  Angele's 
tears,  but  he  was  sorry  she  should  have  stolen  out  a 
second  time  to  mix  with  the  rabble  of  the  village. 

"  I  can't  come  out  to-night,"  he  said  firmly. 

"  Happen  ye'd  be  able  to  see  her  if  I  browt  her  here?  " 

The  white  head  evidently  held  brains,  but  Martin  had 
sufficient  strength  of  character  to  ask  himself  what  his 
new  friends,  the  Herbert  family,  would  think  if  they 
knew  he  was  only  too  willing  to  dance  to  any  tune  the 
temptress  played. 

"  No,  no,"  he  cried,  retreating  a  pace  or  two.    "  You 


The  Wildcat  127 

must  not  bring  her.  I'm  going  to  supper  and  straight 
to  bed.  And,  look  here,  Tommy.  Try  and  persuade 
her  to  go  home.  If  you  and  Jim  Bates  and  the  others 
take  her  round  the  fair  to-night  you'll  all  get  into 
trouble.  You  ought  to  have  heard  the  parson  to-day, 
and  Miss  Walker,  too.  I  wouldn't  be  in  your  shoes  for 
more  than  sixpence." 

This  was  crafty  counsel.  Beadlam,  after  consulting 
Jim  Bates,  communicated  it  to  Angele.  She  stared  with 
wide-open  eyes  at  the  doubting  pair. 

"  Misericorde !  "  she  cried.  "  Were  there  ever  such 
idiots !  Because  he  cannot  come  himself,  he  doesn't  want 
me  to  be  with  you." 

There  was  something  in  this.  Their  judgment  wav- 
ered, and — and — Angele  had  lots  of  money. 

But  she  laughed  them  to  scorn. 

"  Do  you  think  I  want  you !  "  she  screamed.  "  Bah ! 
I  spit  at  you.  Evelyn,  ma  cherie,  walk  with  me  to  The 
Elms.  I  want  to  hear  all  about  the  man  who  was  stabbed 
and  the  woman  who  stabbed  him." 

Thereupon,  Evelyn  and  one  of  her  sisters  went  off 
with  a  girl  whom  they  hated.  But  she  was  clever,  in 
their  estimation,  and  pretty,  and  well  dressed,  and,  oh, 
so  rich !  Above  all,  she  was  not  "  stuck  up  "  like  Elsie 
Herbert,  but  laughed  at  their  simple  wit,  and  was  ready 
to  sink  to  their  level. 

Martin,  taking  thought  before  he  slept,  wondered 
why  Angele  had  not  come  openly  to  the  farm.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  Angele  dared  not  face  John  Bol- 
land.  The  child  feared  the  dour  old  farmer.  She 
dreaded  a  single  look  from  the  shrewd  eyes  which  seemed 
to  search  her  very  soul. 


CHAPTER  X 
DEEPENING  SHADOWS 

THE  doctor  came  late  next  morning.  He  did  not 
reach  Elmsdale  until  after  eleven  o'clock.  He  called 
first  at  the  White  House  and  handed  Mrs.  Bolland  a 
small  package. 

"  These  are  the  handkerchiefs  I  took  away  yester- 
day," he  said.  "  I  suppose  they  belong  to  Mr.  Herbert's 
household.  My  servant  has  washed  them.  Will  you  see 
that  they  are  returned?" 

"  Mercy  o'  me !  "  cried  Martha.  "  I  nivver  knew  ye 
took  'em.  What  did  ye  want  'em  for,  docthor?  " 

"  There  might  have  been  some  malignant  substance — 
some  poisonous  matter — in  the  cat's  claws,  and  as  the 
county  analyst  was  engaged  at  my  place  on  some  other 
business  I —  Oh,  come  now,  Mrs.  Bolland,  there's  no 
need  to  be  alarmed.  Martin's  wounds  were  cleansed, 
and  the  salt  applied  to  the  raw  edges  so  promptly,  that 
any  danger  which  might  have  existed  was  stopped 
effectually." 

Yet  the  doctor's  cheery  face  was  grave  that  morning 
and  his  brow  was  wrinkled  as  he  unfastened  the  band- 
ages. Beyond  a  slight  stiffness  of  certain  sinews  and 
the  natural  soreness  of  the  cut  flesh,  Martin  had  never 
felt  better  in  his  life.  After  a  disturbed  slumber,  when 
he  dreamed  that  he  was  choking  a  wildcat — a  cat  with 
Angele's  face  which  changed  suddenly  in  death  to  Elsie 

128 


Deepening  Shadows  129 

Herbert's  smiling  features — he  lay  awake  for  some 
hours.  Then  the  pain  in  his  wrists  abated  gradually, 
he  fell  sound  asleep,  and  Mrs.  Holland  took  care  that 
he  was  left  alone  until  he  awoke  of  his  own  accord  at 
half-past  eight,  an  unprecedented  hour. 

So  the  boy  laughed  at  his  mother's  fears.  Her  lips 
quivered,  and  she  tried  to  choke  back  a  sob.  The  doctor 
turned  on  her  angrily. 

"  Stop  that !  "  he  growled.  "  I  suppose  you  think 
I'm  hoodwinking  you.  It  is  not  so.  I  am  very  much 
worried  about  another  matter  altogether,  so  pilease 
accept  my  assurance  that  Martin  is  all  right.  He  can 
run  about  all  day,  if  he  likes.  The  only  consequence  of 
disturbing  these  cuts  will  be  that  they  cannot  heal 
rapidly.  Otherwise,  they  will  be  closed  completely  by 
the  end  of  the  week." 

While  he  talked  he  worked.  The  dressings  were 
changed  and  fresh  lint  applied.  He  handed  Mrs.  Bol- 
land  a  store  of  materials. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  I  need  not  come  again,  but  I'D 
call  on  Monday,  just  to  satisfy  you.  Apply  the  lotion 
morning  and  night.  Good-by,  Martin.  You  did  a  brave 
thing,  I  hear.  Good-by,  Mrs.  Bolland." 

He  closed  his  bag  hurriedly  and  rushed  away.  Mrs. 
Bolland,  drying  her  eyes,  and  quite  satisfied  now,  went 
to  the  door  and  gazed  after  him. 

"  He's  fair  rattled  wi'  summat,"  she  told  another 
portly  dame  who  labored  up  the  incline  at  the  moment. 
"  He  a'most  snapped  my  head  off.  Did  he  think  a  body 
wouldn't  be  scared  wi'  his  talk  about  malignous  pison 
i'  t'  lad's  bluid,  I  wonder?" 

The  doctor  did  not  pull  up  outside  the  "  Black  Lion." 


130  The  Revellers 

He  drove  to  the  Vicarage — a  circumstance  which  would 
most  certainly  have  given  Mrs.  Bolland  renewed  cause 
for  alarm,  were  she  aware  of  it — and  asked  Mr.  Herbert 
to  walk  in  the  garden  with  him  for  a  few  minutes. 

The  two  conversed  earnestly,  and  the  vicar  seemed  to 
be  greatly  shocked  at  the  outcome  of  their  talk.  At 
last  they  arrived  at  a  decision.  The\  doctor  hastened 
back  to  the  "  Black  Lion."  He  did  not  remain  long  in 
the  sick  room,  but  scribbled  a  note  downstairs  and  gave 
it  to  his  man. 

"  Take  that  to  Mr.  Herbert,"  he  said.    "  I'll  make  a 
few  calls  on  foot  and  meet  you  at  the  bridge  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour." 
The  note  read: 

"  There  is  no  hope.  Things  are  exactly  as  I  feared." 
The  vicar,  looking  most  woebegone,  murmured  that 
there  was  no  answer.  He  procured  his  hat  and  walked 
slowly  to  the  inn,  which  was  crowded,  inside  and  out. 
Nearly  every  man  knew  him  and  spoke  to  him,  and  many 
noted  that  "  t'  passon  looked  varra  down  i'  t'  mooth  this 
mornin'." 

He  went  upstairs.  The  conjecture  flew  around  at 
once  that  Pickering  was  worse.  Someone  remembered 
that  Kitty  Thwaites  said  the  patient  had  experienced  a 
touch  of  fever  overnight.  Surely,  his  wound  had  not 
developed  serious  symptoms.  The  chief  herd  of  his 
Nottonby  estate  had  seen  him  during  the  preceding 
afternoon  and  found  his  master  looking  wonderfully 
well.  Indeed,  Pickering  spoke  of  attending  to  some 
business  matter  in  person  on  Saturday,  or  on  Monday 
for  certain.  Why,  then,  the  vicar's  visit?  What  did 
it  portend?  People  gathered  in  small  groups  and  their 


Deepening  Shadows  131 

voices  softened.  By  contrast,  the  blare  of  lively  music 
and  the  whistle  of  the  roundabout  were  intolerably  loud. 

In  the  quiet  room  at  the  back  of  the  hotel,  with  its 
scent  of  iodoform  mingling  with  the  sweet  breath  of  the 
garden  wafted  in  through  an  open  window,  Pickering 
moved  restlessly  in  bed.  His  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes 
singularly  bright,  with  a  glistening  sheen  that  was 
abnormal. 

By  his  side  sat  the  pallid  Betsy,  reading  a  newspaper 
aloud.  She  followed  the  printed  text  with  difficulty. 
Her  mind  was  troubled.  The  fatigue  of  nursing  was 
nothing  to  one  of  her  healthy  frame,  but  her  thoughts 
were  terrifying.  She  lived  in  a  waking  nightmare.  Had 
she  dared  to  weep,  she  might  have  felt  relief,  but  this 
sure  solace  of  womankind  was  denied  her. 

The  vicar's  entrance  caused  a  sensation.  Betsy,  in  a 
quick  access  of  fear,  dropped  the  paper,  and  Pickering's 
face  blanched.  Some  secret  doubt,  some  inner  monitor, 
brought  a  premonition  of  what  was  to  come.  He  flinched 
from  the  knowledge,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

Mr.  Herbert  essayed  most  gallantly  to  adopt  his 
customary  cheerful  mien. 

"  Dr.  MacGregor  asked  me  to  call  and  see  you, 
George,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  you  are  not  suffering 
greatly." 

"  Not  at  all,  thanks,  vicar.  Just  a  trifle  restless  with 
fever,  perhaps,  but  the  wound  is  nothing,  a  mere  cut. 
I've  had  as  bad  a  scratch  and  much  more  painful  when 
thrusting  through  a  thorn  hedge  after  hounds." 

"Ah.    That  is  well." 

The  reverend  gentleman  seemed  to  be  strangely  at  a 
loss  for  words.  He  glanced  at  Betsy. 


132  The  Revellers 

"  Would  you  mind  leaving  me  alone  with  Mr.  Picker- 
ing for  a  little  while?  "  he  said. 

The  wounded  man  laughed,  and  there  was  a  note  in 
his  voice  that  showed  how  greatly  the  tension  had 
relaxed. 

"  If  that's  what  you're  after,  Mr.  Herbert,"  he  said 
promptly,  "  you  may  rest  assured  that  the  moment  I'm 
able  to  stir  we'll  be  married.  I  told  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe 
so  yesterday." 

"  Indeed ;  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  Nevertheless,  I  want 
to  talk  with  you  alone." 

The  vicar's  insistence  was  a  different  thing  to  the 
wish  expressed  by  a  magistrate  and  a  police  superin- 
tendent. Betsy  went  out  at  once. 

For  an  appreciable  time  after  the  door  had  closed 
no  word  was  spoken  by  either  of  the  men.  The  vicar's 
eyes  were  fixed  mournfully  on  the  valley,  through  which 
a  train  was  winding  its  way.  The  engine  left  in  its  track 
white  wraiths  of  steam  which  vanished  under  the  lusty 
rays  of  the  sun.  The  drone  of  the  showman's  organ 
playing  "  Tommy  Atkins "  reached  the  hardly  con- 
scious listeners  as  through  a  telephone.  From  a  dis- 
tant cornfield  came  the  busy  rattle  of  a  reaping  machine. 
The  harvest  had  commenced  a  fortnight  earlier  than 
usual.  Once  again  was  the  bounteous  earth  giving  to 
man  a  hundredfold  what  he  had  sown.  "  As  ye  sow,  so 
shall  ye  reap."  Out  there  in  the  field  were  garnered  the 
wages  of  honest  endeavor;  here  in  the  room,  with  its 
hospital  perfume,  were  being  awarded  the  wages  of  sin, 
for  George  Pickering  was  condemned  to  death,  and  it 
was  the  vicar's  most  doleful  mission  to  warn  him  of  his 
doom. 


Deepening  Shadows  133 

"  Now,  Mr.  Herbert,  pitch  into  me  as  much  as  you 
like,"  said  the  patient,  breaking  an  uneasy  silence. 
"  I've  been  a  bad  lot,  but  I'll  try  to  make  amends. 
Betsy's  case  is  a  hard  one.  You're  a  man  of  the  world 
and  you  know  what  the  majority  of  these  village  lasses 
are  like;  but  Betsy " 

The  vicar  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer.  He 
must  perform  his  task,  no  matter  what  the  cost. 

"  George,"  he  broke  in  tremulously,  "  my  presence 
here  to-day  is  due  to  a  very  sad  and  irrevocable  fact. 
Dr.  MacGregor  tells  me  that  your  condition  is  serious, 
most  serious.  Indeed — indeed — there  is  no  hope  of  your 
recovery." 

Pickering,  who  had  raised  himself  on  an  elbow,  gazed 
at  the  speaker  for  an  instant  with  fiery  eyes.  Then,  as 
though  he  grasped  the  purport  of  the  words  but  gradu- 
ally, he  sank  back  on  the  pillow  in  the  manner  of  one 
pressed  down  by  overwhelming  force.  The  vicar  moved 
his  chair  nearer  and  grasped  his  friend's  right  hand. 

"  George,"  he  murmured,  "  bear  up,  and  try  to  pre- 
pare your  soul  for  that  which  is  inevitable.  What  are 
you  losing?  A  few  years  of  joys  and  sorrows,  to  which 
the  end  must  come.  And  the  end  is  eternity,  compared 
with  which  this  life  is  but  a  passing  shadow." 

Pickering  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  raised  his 
body  again.  He  moved  his  limbs  freely.  He  looked  at  a 
square  bony  wrist  and  stretched  out  the  free  hand  until 
he  caught  an  iron  rail,  which  he  clenched  fiercely.  In 
his  veins  ran  the  blood  of  a  race  of  yeomen.  His  hardy 
ancestors  had  exchanged  blow  for  blow  with  Scottish 
raiders  who  sought  to  steal  their  cattle.  They  had 
cracked  the  iron  rind  of  many  a  marauder,  broken  many 


134  The  Revellers 

a  border  skull  in  defense  of  their  lives  and  property. 
Never  had  they  feared  death  by  flood  or  field,  and  their 
descendant  scoffed  at  the  grim  vision  now. 

"  What  nonsense  is  this  MacGregor  has  been  talk- 
ing? "  he  shouted.  "Die!  A  man  like  me!  By  gad, 
vicar,  I'd  laugh,  if  I  wasn't  too  vexed !  " 

"  Be  patient,  George,  and  hear  me.  Things  are  worse 
than  you  can  guess.  Your  wound  alone  is  a  small  mat- 
ter, but,  unfortunately,  the  knife " 

"  There  was  no  knife !    It  was  a  pitchfork !  " 

"  Bear  with  me,  I  pray  you.  You  will  need  to  con- 
serve your  energy,  and  your  protest  only  makes  my  duty 
the  harder.  The  knife  has  been  submitted  to  analysis, 
as  well  as  corpuscles  of  your  blood.  Alas,  that  it  should 
fall  to  me  to  tell  it !  Alas,  for  the  poor  girl  whom  you 
have  declared  your  intention  to  marry !  The  knife  had 
been  used  to  carve  grouse,  and  some  putrid  matter  from 
a  shot  wound  had  dried  on  the  blade.  This  was  com- 
municated to  your  system.  The  wound  was  cleansed 
too  late.  Your  blood  was  poisoned  before  the  doctor 
saw  you,  and — and — there  is  no  hope  now." 

The  vicar  bowed  his  head.  He  dared  not  look  in  the 
eyes  of  the  man  to  whom  he  was  conveying  this  dire 
sentence.  He  felt  Pickering  subsiding  gently  to  the 
pillow  and  straightening  his  limbs. 

"  How  long?  " 

The  words  were  uttered  in  a  singularly  calm  voice — 
so  calm  that  the  pastor  ventured  to  raise  his  sorrow- 
laden  face.  \ 

"  Soon.  Perhaps  three  days.  Perhaps  a  week.  But 
you  will  be  delirious.  You  have  little  time  in  which  to 
prepare." 


Deepening  Shadows  135 

Again  a  silence.  A  faint  shriek  reached  them  from 
afar,  the  whistle  of  the  train  entering  Nottonby,  the 
pleasant  little  town  which  Pickering  would  never  more 
see. 

"  What  a  finish !  "  he  muttered.  "  I'd  have  liked  it 
better  in  the  saddle.  I  wouldn't  have  cared  a  damn  if 
I  broke  my  neck  after  hounds." 

Another  pause,  and  the  vicar  said  gently : 

"  Have  you  made  your  will?  " 

"  No." 

'*  Then  it  must  be  attended  to  at  once." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  Then,  there's  Betsy.  Oh,  God,  I've 
treated  her  badly.  Now,  help  me,  won't  you?  There's 
a  hundred  pounds  in  notes  and  some  twenty-odd  in  gold 
in  that  drawer.  Telegraph  first  to  Stockwell,  my  lawyer 
in  Nottonby.  Bring  him  here.  Then,  spare  no  money 
in  getting  a  license  for  my  marriage.  I  can't  die  unless 
that  is  put  right.  Don't  delay,  there's  a  good  chap. 
You  have  to  apply  to  the  Archbishop,  don't  you? 
You'll  do  everything,  I  know.  Will  you  be  a  trustee 
under  my  will?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  wish  it." 

"  It'll  please  me  more  than  anything.  Of  course,  I'll 
make  it  worth  your  while.  I  insist,  I  tell  you.  Go,  now ! 
Don't  lose  a  moment.  Send  Betsy.  And,  vicar,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  not  a  word  to  her  until  we  are  married. 
I'll  tell  her  the  fever  is  serious;  just  that,  and  no  more." 

"  One  other  matter,  George.  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe 
will  come  here  to-day  or  to-morrow  to  take  your  sworn 
deposition.  You  must  not  die  with  a  lie  on  your  con- 
science, however  good  the  motive." 

"  I'll  jump  that  fence  when  I  reach  it,  Mr.  Herbert. 


136  The  Revellers 

Meanwhile,  the  lawyer  and  the  license.  They're  all- 
important." 

The  vicar  left  it  at  that.  He  deemed  it  best  to  take 
the  urgent  measures  of  the  hour  off  the  man's  mind  be- 
fore endeavoring  to  turn  his  thoughts  toward  a  fitting 
preparation  for  the  future  state.  With  a  reassuring 
handclasp,  he  left  him. 

The  two  sisters  waylaid  him  in  the  passage. 

"  Ye  had  but  ill  news,  I  fear,  sir,"  said  Betsy  despair- 
ingly, catching  Mr.  Herbert  by  the  arm. 

The  worried  man  stooped  to  deception. 

"Now,  why  should  you  jump  to  conclusions?"  he 
cried.  "  Dr.  MacGregor  asked  me  to  look  up  his 
patient.  Am  I  a  harbinger  of  disaster,  like  Mother 
Carey's  chickens  ?  " 

"  Oh,  parson,"  she  wailed,  "  I  read  it  i'  yer  face,  an' 
in  t'  doctor's.  Don't  tell  me  all  is  weD.  I  know  better. 
Pray  God  I  may  die " 

"  Hush,  my  poor  girl,  you  know  not  what  you  say. 
Go  to  Mr.  Pickering.  He  wants  you." 

He  knew  the  appeal  would  be  successful.  She  darted 
off.  Before  Kitty,  in  turn,  could  question  him,  he 
escaped. 

It  was  easier  to  run  the  gantlet  of  friendly  inquirers 
outside.  He  telegraphed  to  the  solicitor  and  sent  a  tele- 
graphic remittance  of  the  heavy  fees  demanded  for  the 
special  license.  Within  two  hours  he  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  that  the  precious  document  was  in  the 
post  and  would  reach  him  next  morning. 

Mr.  Stockwell's  protests  against  Pickering's  testa- 
mentary designs  were  cut  short  by  his  client. 

"  Look  here,  Stockwell,"  was  the  irritated  comment, 


Deepening  Shadows  137 

"  you  are  an  old  friend  of  mine  and  I'd  like  this  matter 
to  remain  in  your  hands,  but  if  you  say  another  word 
I'll  be  forced  to  send  for  someone  else." 

"  If  you  put  it  that  way "  began  the  lawyer. 

"I  do,  most  emphatically.  Now,  what  is  it  to  be? 
Yes  or  no?  " 

For  answer  the  legal  man  squared  some  foolscap 
sheets  on  a  small  table  and  produced  a  stylographic  pen. 

"  Let  me  understand  clearly,"  he  said.  "  You  intend 
to  marry  this — er — lady,  and  mean  to  settle  four  hun- 
dred a  year  on  her  for  life?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Suppose  she  marries  again?  " 

"  God  in  heaven,  man,  do  you  think  I  want  to  play 
dog-in-the-manger  in  my  grave?  " 

"  Then  it  had  better  take  the  form  of  a  marriage 
settlement.  It  is  the  strongest  instrument  known  in 
the  law  and  avoids  the  death  duties." 

Pickering  winced,  but  the  lawyer  went  on  remorse- 
lessly. He  regarded  the  marriage  as  a  wholly  quixotic 
notion,  and  knew  only  too  well  that  Betsy  Thwaites 
would  be  tried  for  murder  if  Pickering  died. 

"  Have  you  no  relatives  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  seem  to 
recollect " 

"  My  cousin  Stanhope?  He's  quite  well  off,  an  M.P., 
and  likely  to  be  made  a  baronet." 

"  He  will  not  object  to  the  chance  of  dropping  in  for 
£1,500  a  year." 

"  Do  you  think  the  estate  will  yield  so  much  ?  " 

"  More,  I  imagine.  Did  you  ever  know  what  you 
spent?  " 

"  No." 


138  The  Revellers 

"  Well,  is  it  to  be  this  Mr.  Stanhope?  " 

"  No.  He  never  gave  me  a  thought.  Why  should  I 
endow  him  and  his  whelps?  Let  the  lot  go  to  the  County 
Council  in  aid  of  the  county  orphanage.  By  Jove,  that's 
a  good  idea !  I  like  that." 

"  Anything  else  ?  "  demanded  the  lawyer. 

"  Yes.    You  and  Mr.  Herbert  are  to  be  the  trustees." 

"  The  deuce  we  are.    Who  said  so?  " 

*'  I  say  so.  You  are  to  receive  £50  a  year  each  from 
the  estate  for  administering  it." 

"  Ah.    That  gilds  the  pill.    Next?  " 

"  I  have  nearly  a  thousand  in  the  bank.  Keep  half  as 
working  capital,  give  a  hundred  to  my  company  in  the 
Territorials,  and  divide  the  balance,  according  to  salary, 
among  all  my  servants  who  have  more  than  five  years' 
service.  And — Betsy  is  to  have  the  use  of  the  house  and 
furniture,  if  she  wishes  it." 

"  Anything  else?  " 

Pickering  was  exhausted,  but  continued  to  laugh 
weakly. 

"  Yes ;  I  had  almost  forgotten.  I  bequeath  to  John 
Bolland  the  shorthorn  cow  he  sold  me,  and  to  that  lad 
of  his — you  must  find  out  his  proper  name — my  pair  of 
hammerless  guns  and  my  sword.  He  frames  to  be  a 
sportsman,  and  I  think  he'll  make  a  soldier.  He  picked 
up  a  poker  like  a  shot  the  other  day  when  I  quarreled 
with  old  John." 

"  What  was  the  quarrel  about?  " 

"  When  you  send  back  the  cow,  you'll  be  told." 

Mr.  Stockwell  scanned  his  notes  rapidly. 

"  I'll  put  my  clerks  to  work  at  this  to-night,"  he  said. 
"  As  I  am  a  trustee,  my  partner  will  attend  to-morrow 


Deepening  Shadows  139 

to  get  your  signature.  Of  course,  you  know  you  must 
be  married  before  you  make  your  will,  or  it  will  be  in- 
valid? Before  I  go,  George,  are  you  sure  it  is  all  over 
with  you  ?  " 

"  MacGregor  says  so.     I  suppose  he  knows." 

"  Yes,  he  knows,  if  any  man  does.  Yet  I  can't  believe 
it.  It  seems  monstrous,  incredible." 

They  gazed  fixedly  at  each  other.  Of  the  two,  the 
man  of  law  was  the  more  affected.  Before  either  could 
speak  again  they  heard  Betsy's  agonized  cry: 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  miss,  don't  tell  me  I  may  not 
be  with  him  always !  I've  done  my  best ;  I  have,  indeed. 
I'll  give  neither  him  nor  you  any  trouble.  Don't  keep 
me  away  from  him  now,  or  I'll  go  mad !  " 

The  lawyer,  wondering  what  new  frenzy  possessed  the 
woman  who  had  struck  down  his  friend,  opened  the  door. 
He  was  confronted  by  a  hospital  nurse  sent  by  Dr. 
MacGregor.  She  looked  like  a  strong-minded  person 
and  was  probably  a  stickler  for  the  etiquette  of  the  sick 
room.  He  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"  There  need  be  no  difficulty,  nurse,  where  Miss 
Thwaites  is  concerned,"  he  said.  "  She  is  to  be  married 
to  Mr.  Pickering  to-morrow,  and  as  he  has  only  a  few 
days  to  live  they  should  see  as  much  of  each  other  as 
possible.  Any  other  arrangement  would  irritate  your 
patient  greatly,  and  be  quite  contrary  to  Dr.  Mac- 
Gregor's  wishes,  I  am  sure." 

The  nurse  bowed,  and  Betsy  sobbed  as  the  secret  that 
was  no  secret  to  her  was  revealed.  None  of  the  three 
realized  that  several  men  standing  in  the  hall  beneath, 
whose  talk  had  been  silenced  by  Betsy's  frenzied  excla- 
mation, must  have  heard  every  word  the  lawyer  uttered. 


CHAPTER  XI 

FOR  ONE,  THE  NIGHT;  FOR  ANOTHER, 
THE  DAWN 

So  Elmsdale  was  given  another  thrill,  and  a  lasting 
one.  The  Feast  was  ruined.  Not  a  man  or  a  woman 
had  heart  for  enjoyment.  If  a  child  sought  a  penny,  it 
was  chided  sharply  and  asked  what  it  meant  by  gadding 
about  "  when  poor  George  Pickerin'  an'  that  lass  of  his 
were  in  such  trouble." 

Martin  heard  the  news  while  standing  outside  the  box- 
ing booth,  waiting  for  the  sparring  competition  to  com- 
mence. He  went  in,  it  is  true,  and  saw  some  hard  hit- 
ting, but  the  tent  was  nearly  empty.  When  he  and 
Jim  Bates  came  out  an  hour  later,  Elmsdale  was  a  place 
of  mourning. 

A  series  of  exciting  events,  each  crowding  on  its 
predecessor's  heels  as  though  some  diabolical  agency 
had  resolved  to  disturb  the  community,  had  roused  the 
hamlet  from  its  torpor. 

Five  slow-moving  years  had  passed  since  the  village 
had  been  stirred  so  deeply.  Then  it  endured  a  fort- 
night's epidemic  of  suicide.  A  traveling  tinker  began 
the  uncanny  cycle.  On  a  fine  summer's  day  he  was  re- 
pairing his  kettles  on  a  corner  of  the  green,  when  he 
was  observed  to  leave  his  little  handcart  and  go  into 
a  neighboring  wood.  He  did  not  return.  Search  next 
day  discovered  him  swaying  from  a  branch  of  a  tall 

140 


The  Night— The  Dawn  141 

tree,  looking  like  some  forlorn  scarecrow  suspended  there 
by  a  practical  joker. 

The  following  morning  a  soldier  on  furlough,  one  of 
the  very  men  who  helped  to  cut  down  the  tinker's  body, 
went  into  a  cow-house  at  the  back  of  his  mother's  cottage 
and  suspended  himself  from  a  rafter.  An  odd  feature 
of  this  man's  exit  was  that  the  rope  had  yielded  so  much 
that  his  feet  rested  on  the  ground.  Before  the  hanging 
he  had  actually  cut  letters  out  of  his  red-cloth  tunic  and 
formed  the  word  "  Farewell "  in  a  semicircle  on  the 
stable  floor.  A  girl  soon  afterwards  selected  the  mill- 
dam  for  a  consoling  plunge ;  and,  to  crown  all,  the  vicar, 
Mr.  Herbert's  forerunner,  having  received  a  telegram 
announcing  the  failure  of  a  company  in  which  he  had 
invested  some  money,  opened  his  jugular  vein  with  a 
sharp  scissors.  That  these  tragedies  should  happen 
within  a  fortnight  in  a  community  of  less  than  three 
hundred  people  was  enough  to  give  a  life-insurance 
actuary  an  attack  of  hysteria. 

But  each  lacked  the  dramatic  flavor  attached  to  the 
ill-governed  passion  of  Betsy  Thwaites  and  her  fickle 
swain.  Kitty  was  known  to  all  in  Elmsdale,  Betsy  to 
few,  but  George  Pickering  was  a  popular  man  through- 
out the  whole  countryside.  It  was  sensation  enough  that 
one  of  his  many  amours  should  result  in  an  episode  more 
typical  of  Paris  than  of  an  English  Sleepy  Hollow.  But 
the  sequel — the  marriage  of  this  wealthy  gentleman- 
farmer  to  a  mere  dairymaid,  followed  by  his  death  from 
a  wound  inflicted  by  the  bride-to-be — this  was  undiluted 
melodrama  drawn  from  the  repertoire  of  the  Petit 
Guignol. 

That  night  the  story  spread  over  England.     A  re- 


142  The  Revellers 

porter  from  the  Messenger  came  to  Elmsdale  to  glean 
the  exact  facts  as  to  Mr.  Pickering's  "  accident." 
Owing  to  the  peculiar  circumstances,  he,  perforce, 
showed  much  discretion  in  compiling  the  story  tele- 
graphed to  the  Press  Association.  Not  even  the  use  of 
that  magic  word  "  alleged  "  would  enable  him  to  charge 
Betsy  Thwaites  with  attempted  murder,  after  the  police 
had  apparently  withdrawn  the  accusation.  But  he  con- 
trived to  retail  the  legend  by  throwing  utter  discredit 
on  it,  and  the  rest  was  plain  sailing.  Moreover,  he  was 
a  smart  young  man.  He  pondered  deeply  after  dis- 
patching the  message.  He  was  employed  on  the  staff 
of  a  local  weekly  newspaper,  so  his  traveling  allowance 
was  limited  to  a  third-class  return  ticket  and  a  shilling 
for  "  tea."  Yet  he  decided  to  remain  in  Elmsdale  at  his 
own  expense.  The  departure  of  the  German  Govern- 
ment agent  for  another  horse-fair  left  a  vacant  bedroom 
at  the  "  Black  Lion."  This  he  secured.  He  foresaw  a 
golden  harvest. 

Luck  favored  him.  Conversing  with  a  village  Solon 
in  the  bar,  he  caught  a  remark  that  "  John  Bolland's 
lad  "  would  be  an  important  witness  at  the  inquest.  Of 
course,  he  made  inquiries  and  was  favored  with  a  full 
and  accurate  account  of  the  wanderings  of  the  farmer 
and  his  wife  in  London  thirteen  years  earlier,  together 
with  their  adoption  of  the  baby  which  had  literally  fallen 
from  the  skies.  To  the  country  journalist,  Fleet  Street 
is  the  Mecca  of  his  earthly  pilgrimage,  and  St.  Martin's 
Court,  Ludgate  Hill,  was  near  enough  to  newspaperdom 
to  be  sacred  ground.  The  very  name  of  the  boy  smacked 
of  "  copy." 

John  Holland,  lumbering  out  of  the  stockyard  at  tea- 


The  Night— The  Dawn  143 

time,  encountered  Dr.  MacGregor.  The  farmer  had 
been  thinking  hard  while  striding  through  his  diminished 
cornfields,  and  crumbling  ears  of  wheat,  oats,  and  barley 
in  his  strong  hands  to  ascertain  the  exact  date  when 
they  would  be  ripe.  Already  some  of  his  neighbors  were 
busy,  but  John  was  more  anxious  about  the  condition 
of  the  straw  than  the  forwardness  of  the  grain;  more- 
over, men  and  women  did  not  work  so  well  during  feast- 
time.  Next  week  he  would  obtain  full  measure  for  his 
money. 

"  I  reckon  Martin'll  soon  be  fit?  "  he  said. 

The  doctor  nodded. 

"  He's  a  bright  lad,  yon  ?  "  went  on  the  farmer. 

"  Yes.    What  are  you  going  to  make  of  him?  " 

Dr.  MacGregor  knew  the  ways  of  Elmsdale  folk. 
They  required  leading  up  to  a  subject  by  judicious 
questioning.  Rarely  would  they  unburden  their  minds 
by  direct  statements. 

"  That's  what's  worryin'  me,"  said  John  slowly. 
"  What  d'ye  think  yersen,  docthor?  " 

"  It  is  hard  to  say.  It  all  hinges  on  what  you  intend 
doing  for  him,  Bolland.  He  is  not  your  son.  If  he 
has  to  depend  on  his  own  resources  when  he's  a  man, 
teach  him  a  useful  trade.  No  matter  how  able  he  may 
be,  that  will  never  come  amiss." 

The  farmer  gazed  around.  As  men  counted  in  that 
locality,  he  was  rich,  not  in  hard  cash,  but  in  lands, 
stock,  and  tenements.  His  expenses  did  not  grow  pro- 
portionately with  his  earnings.  He  ate  and  dressed 
and  economized  now  as  on  the  day  when  Martha  and  he 
faced  the  world  together,  with  the  White  House  and  its 
small  meadows  their  only  belongings.  In  a  few  years 


144  The  Revellers 

the  produce  of  his  shorthorn  herd  alone  would  bring  in 
hundreds  annually,  and  his  Cleveland  bays  were  noted 
throughout  the  county. 

He  took  the  doctor's  hint. 

"  I've  nayther  chick  nor  child  but  Martin,"  he  said. 
"  When  Martha  an'  me  are  gone  te  t'  Lord,  all  that  we 
hev'll  be  Martin's.  That's  settled  lang  syne.  I  med 
me  will  four  years  agone  last  Easter." 

There  was  something  behind  this,  and  MacGregor 
probed  again. 

"  Isn't  he  cut  out  for  a  farmer?  " 

"  I  hae  me  doots,"  was  the  cautious  answer. 

The  doctor  waited,  so  John  continued. 

"  I  was  sair  set  on  t'  lad  being  a  minister.  But  I 
judge  it's  not  t'  Lord's  will.  He's  of  a  rovin5  stock,  I 
fancy.  When  he's  a  man,  Elmsdale  won't  be  big  eneuf 
te  hold  him.  He  cooms  frae  Lunnon,  an'  te  Lunnon 
he'll  gang.  It's  in  his  feace.  Lunnon's  a  bad  pleace 
for  a  youngster  whea  kens  nowt  but  t'  ways  o'  moor 
folk,  docthor." 

Then  the  other  laughed. 

"  In  a  word,  Bolland,  you  have  made  up  your  mind, 
and  want  me  to  agree  with  you.  Of  course,  if  Martin 
succeeds  you,  and  you  have  read  his  character  aright, 
there  is  but  one  line  open.  Send  him  to  a  good  school, 
leave  the  choice  of  a  profession  to  his  more  cultivated 
mind,  and  tie  up  your  property  so  that  it  cannot  be 
sold  and  wasted  in  a  young  man's  folly.  When  he  is 
forty  he  may  be  glad  to  come  back  to  Elmsdale  and 
give  thanks  for  your  foresight  on  his  bended  knees.  In 
any  event,  a  little  extra  book  lore  will  make  him  none 
the  worse  stock-raiser.  Eh,  is  that  what  you  think?  " 


The  Night— The  Dawn  145 

"  You're  a  sound  man,  docthor.  There's  times  I 
wunner  hoo  it  happens  ye  cling  te  sike  nonsense  as  that 
mad  Dutchman " 

MacGregor  laughed  again,  and  nudged  his  groom's 
arm  as  a  signal  to  drive  on.  He  favored  neither  church 
nor  chapel,  but  claimed  a  devoted  adherence  to  the  doc- 
trines of  Emanuel  Swedenborg,  thus  forming  a  sect 
unto  himself.  There  was  not  a  Swedenborgian  temple 
within  a  hundred  miles.  Mayhap  the  doctor's  theo- 
logical views  had  a  geographical  foundation. 

The  farmer  lumbered  across  the  street  and  took  a 
corner  of  the  crowded  tea-table.  Mrs.  Summersgill  was 
entertaining  the  company  with  a  description  of  George 
Pickering's  estate. 

"  It's  a  meracle,  that's  what  it  is ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Te  think  of  Betsy  Thwaites  livin'  i'  style  in  yon  fine 
hoos !  There's  a  revenue  o'  trees  quarther  of  a  mile 
long,  an'  my  husband  sez  t'  high-lyin'  land  grows  t' 
best  wuts  (oats)  i'  t'  county.  An'  she's  got  it  by  a 
prod  wi'  a  carving-knife,  while  a  poor  body  like  me  hez 
te  scrat  sae  hard  for  a  livin'  that  me  fingers  are  worn 
te  t'  bone !  " 

Mrs.  Summersgill  weighed  sixteen  stone,  but  she  was 
heedless  of  satire.  Her  eye  fell  on  Martin,  eating 
silently,  but  well. 

"  Some  folks  git  their  bread  easy,  I'm  sure,"  she  went 
on.  "  Ivver  sen  I  was  a  bit  lass  I've  tewed  and  wrowt 
an'  mead  sike  deed  ower  spendin'  hawpenny,  whiles 
uthers  hev  a  silver  spoon  thrust  i'  their  gob  frae  t'  time 
they're  born ! " 

"  T'  Lord  gives,  an'  t'  Lord  taks  away.  Ye  munnot 
fly  i'  t'  feace  o'  t'  Lord,"  said  Bolland. 


146  The  Revellers 

"  I'm  not  built  for  flyin'  anywhere,"  cried  the  old 
lady.  "  I  wish  I  was.  'Tis  flighty  'uns  as  wins  nowa- 
days. Look  at  Betsy  Thwaites!  Look  at  Mrs.  Sau- 
marez!  She  mun  hae  gotten  her  money  varra  simple 
te  fling  it  about  as  she  does.  My  man  telt  me  that  her 
little  gal,  t'other  neet " 

"  Yer  cup's  empty,  Mrs.  Summersgill,"  put  in  Martha 
quickly.     "  Bless    my    heart,    ye    talk    an'    eat    nowt. 
Speakin'  o'  Mrs.  Saumarez,  hez  anyone  heerd  if  she's 
better?      One   o'   Miss   Walker's   maids   said   she   was 
poorly." 

Martin  caught  his  mother's  eye,  and  rose.  He  went 
upstairs ;  the  farmer  followed  him.  The  two  sat  near 
the  window;  on  the  broad  ledge  reposed  the  Bible;  but 
Bolland  did  not  open  the  book.  He  laid  his  hand  on  it 
reverently  and  looked  at  the  boy. 

"  Martin,"  he  began,  "  yer  muther  tells  me  that 
Benson  med  yer  mind  sair  by  grabbin'  te  t'  squire  aboot 
yer  bringin'  up.  Nay,  lad,  ye  needn't  say  owt.  'Tis  no 
secret.  We  on'y  kept  it  frae  ye  for  yer  good.  Any- 
how, 'tis  kent  noo,  an'  there's  nae  need  te  chew  on  't. 
What  troubled  me  maist  was  yer  muther's  defiance 
when  I  was  minded  te  punish  ye  for  bein'  out  late." 

"  It  won't  occur  again,  sir,"  said  Martin  quietly. 

"  Mebbe.  T'  spirit  is  willin',  but  t'  flesh  is  wake. 
Noo,  I  want  a  straight  answer  te  a  straight  question. 
Are  these  Bible  lessons  te  yer  likin'  ?  " 

It  was  so  rare  for  the  farmer  to  speak  in  this  down- 
right fashion  that  the  boy  was  alarmed.  He  knew  not 
what  lay  behind;  but  he  had  not  earned  his  reputation 
for  honesty  on  insufficient  grounds. 

"  No,  they're  not,"  he  said. 


The  Night— The  Dawn  147 

Bolland  groaned.    "  T'  minister  said  so.    Why  not?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  explain.  For  one  thing,  I  don't  under- 
stand what  I  read.  And  often  I  would  like  to  be  out  in 
the  fields  or  on  the  moor  when  I'm  forced  to  be  here. 
All  the  same,  I  do  try  hard,  and  if  I  thought  it  would 
please  you  and  mother,  I'd  do  much  more  than  give  up 
half  an  hour  a  day." 

"  Ay,  a'y.  'Tis  compulsion,  not  love.  I  telt  t'  minis- 
ter that  Paul  urged  insistence  in  season  an'  out  o' 
season,  but  he  held  that  the  teachin'  applied  te  doctrine, 
an'  not  te  Bible  lessons  for  t'  young.  Well,  Martin,  I've 
weighed  this  thing,  an'  not  without  prayer.  I've  seen 
many  a  field  spoiled  by  bad  farmin',  an',  when  yer 
muther  calls  my  own  hired  men  te  help  her  agen  me; 
when  a  lad  like  you  goes  fightin'  young  gentlemen  aboot 
a  lass ;  when  yon  Frenchified  ninny  eggs  ye  on  te  spend 
money  like  watter,  an'  yer  muther  gies  ye  t'  brass  next 
day  te  pay  Mrs.  Saumarez,  lest  it  should  reach  my 
ears — why,  I've  coom  te  believe  that  my  teachin'  is 
mistakken." 

Martin  was  petrified  at  hearing  his  delinquencies  laid 
bare  in  this  manner.  He  had  not  realized  that  the  ex- 
travagant disply  of  Monday  must  evoke  comment  in  a 
small  village,  and  that  Bolland  could  not  fail  to  inter- 
pret correctly  his  wife's  anxiety  to  hush  up  all  refer- 
ence to  it.  He  blushed  and  held  his  tongue,  for  the 
farmer  was  speaking  again. 

"  T'  upshot  of  all  this  is  that  I've  sought  counsel. 
Ye're  an  honest  lad,  I  will  say  that  fer  ye,  but  ye're  a 
lad  differin'  frae  those  of  yer  age  i'  Elmsdale.  If  all 
goes  well  wi'  me,  ye'll  nivver  want  food  nor  lodgin',  but 
an  idle  man  is  a  wicked  man,  nine  times  out  o'  ten,  an' 


148  The  Revellers 

I'd  like  te  see  ye  sattled  i'  summat  afore  I  go  te  my 
rest.  You're  not  cut  out  fer  t'  ministry,  ye're  none  for 
farmin',  an'  I'd  sooner  see  ye  dead  than  dancin'  around 
t'  countryside  after  women,  like  poor  George  Pickerin'. 
Soa  ye  mun  gang  te  college  an'  sharpen  yer  wits,  an' 
happen  fower  or  five  years  o'  delvin'  i'  books'll  shape  yer 
life  i'  different  gait  te  owt  I  can  see  at  this  minnit. 
What  think  you  on't?" 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  it  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world." 

The  boy's  eyes  sparkled  at  this  most  unlooked-for 
announcement.  Never  before  had  his  heart  so  gone  out 
to  the  rugged  old  man  whose  stern  glance  was  now 
searching  him  through  the  horn-rimmed  spectacles. 

What  magician  had  transformed  John  Bolland?  Was 
it  possible  that  beneath  the  patriarchial  inflexibility  of 
the  rugged  farmer's  character  there  lay  a  spring  of 
human  tenderness,  a  clear  fountain  hidden  by  half  a 
century  of  toil  and  narrow  religion,  but  now  unearthed 
forcibly  by  circumstances  stronger  than  the  man  him- 
self? The  boy  could  not  put  these  questions  into  words. 
He  was  too  young  to  understand  even  the  meaning  of 
psychological  analysis.  He  could  only  sit  there  mute, 
stunned  by  the  glory  of  the  unexpected  promise. 

Of  course,  if  a  thinker  like  Dr.  MacGregor  were 
aware  of  all  the  facts,  he  would  have  seen  that  the  rebel- 
lion of  Martha  had  been  a  lightning  stroke.  The  few 
winged  words  she  shot  at  her  husband  on  that  memo- 
rable night  had  penetrated  deeper  than  she  thought.  It 
chanced,  too,  that  the  revivalist  preacher  whom  Bolland 
took  into  his  confidence  was  a  man  of  sound  common 
sense,  and  much  more  acute  in  private  life  than  anyone 


The  Night— The  Dawn  149 

could  imagine  who  witnessed  his  methods  of  hammering 
the  Gospel  into  the  dullards  of  the  village.  He  it  was 
who  advised  a  timely  diminution  of  devotional  exercises 
which  were  likely  to  become  distasteful  to  a  spirited  lad. 
He  recommended  the  farmer  to  educate  Martin  beyond 
the  common  run,  while  the  choice  of  a  profession  might 
be  left  to  maturer  consideration.  Among  the  many 
influences  conspiring  in  that  hour  to  mold  the  boy's 
future  life,  none  was  more  wholesome  than  that  of  the 
tub-thumping  preacher. 

Bolland  seemed  to  be  gratified  by  Martin's  tongue- 
tied  enthusiasm. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  rising.  "  Noo  my  hand's  te  t'  plow 
I'll  keep  it  there.  Remember,  Martin,  when  ye  tak  te 
study  t'  Word  o'  yer  own  accord,  ye  can  start  at  t' 
second  chapter  o'  t'  Third  Book  o'  Kings.  I'll  be 
throng  wi'  t'  harvest  until  t'  middle  o'  September,  but 
I'll  ax  Mr.  Herbert  te  recommend  a  good  school.  He's 
a  fair  man,  if  he  does  lean  ower  much  te  t'  Romans. 
Soa,  fer  t'  next  few  days,  run  wild  an'  enjoy  yersen. 
Happen  ye'll  never  hae  as  happy  a  time  again." 

He  patted  the  boy's  head,  a  rare  sign  of  sentiment, 
and  walked  heavily  out  of  the  room.  Martin  saw  him 
cross  the  road  and  clout  a  stable-boy's  ears  because  the 
yard  was  not  swept  clean.  Then  he  called  to  his  fore- 
man, and  the  two  went  off  to  the  low-lying  meadows. 
Bolland  had  been  turning  over  in  his  mind  Mrs. 
Saumarez's  remarks  about  draining;  they  were  worthy 
of  consideration  and,  perhaps,  of  experiment. 

Martin  remained  standing  at  the  window.  So  he  was 
to  leave  Elmsdale,  go  out  into  the  wide  world  beyond  the 
hills,  mix  with  people  who  spoke  and  acted  and  moved 


150  The  Revellers 

like  the  great  ones  of  whom  he  had  read  in  books.  He 
was  glad  of  it ;  oh,  so  glad !  He  would  learn  Greek  and 
Latin,  French  and  German.  No  longer  would  the  queer- 
looking  words  trouble  his  eyes.  Their  meaning  would 
be  made  clear  to  his  understanding.  He  would  soon 
acquire  that  nameless  manner  of  which  the  squire,  the 
vicar,  Mrs.  Saumarez,  the  young  university  students 
he  met  yesterday,  possessed  the  secret.  Elsie  Herbert 
had  it,  and  Angele  was  veneered  with  it,  though  in  her 
case  he  knew  quite  well  that  the  polish  was  only  skin 
deep. 

It  was  what  he  had  longed  for  with  all  his  heart,  yet 
now  that  the  longing  was  to  be  appeased  he  had  never 
felt  more  drawn  to  his  parents;  his  only  by  adoption, 
it  was  true ;  but  nevertheless  father  and  mother  by  every 
tie  known  to  him. 

By  the  way,  whose  child  was  he?  No  one  had  told 
him  the  literal  manner  in  which  he  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  Bollands.  Probably  his  real  progenitors  were 
dead  long  since.  Were  it  not  for  the  kindness  of  the 
farmer  and  his  wife  he  might  have  been  reared  in  that 
awful  place,  the  "  Union,"  of  which  the  poverty-stricken 
old  people  in  the  parish  spoke  with  such  dread.  His 
own  folk  must  have  been  poor.  Those  who  were  well 
off  were  fond  of  their  children  and  loth  to  part  from 
them.  Well,  he  must  be  a  real  son  to  John  and  Martha 
Bolland.  They  should  have  reason  to  be  proud  of  him. 
He  would  do  nothing  to  disgrace  their  honored  name. 

What  was  it  his  father  said  just  now?  When  he 
studied  the  Bible  of  his  own  accord  he  might  begin  at 
the  second  chapter  of  the  Second  Book  of  Kings. 

It  would  please  the  old  man  to  know  that  he  gave  the 


The  Night— The  Dawn  151 

first  moment  of  liberty  to  reading  the  Word  which  was 
held  so  precious.  He  opened  the  book  at  the  page  where 
the  long,  narrow  strip  of  black  silk  marked  the  close  of 
the  last  lesson.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  boy 
brought  to  bear  on  the  task  an  unaided  and  sympa- 
thetic intelligence,  and  this  is  what  he  read : 

"  Now  the  days  of  David  drew  nigh  that  he  should 
die;  and  he  charged  Solomon  his  son,  saying, 

"  I  go  the  way  of  all  the  earth :  be  thou  strong  there- 
fore, and  shew  thyself  a  man ; 

"  And  keep  the  charge  of  the  Lord  thy  God,  to  walk 
in  his  ways,  to  keep  his  statutes,  and  his  command- 
ments, and  his  judgments,  and  his  testimonies,  as  it  is 
written  in  the  law  of  Moses,  that  thou  mayest  prosper 
in  all  that  thou  doest,  and  whithersoever  thou  turnest 
thyself : 

"  That  the  Lord  may  continue  his  word  which  he 
spake  concerning  me,  saying,  If  thy  children  take  heed 
to  their  way,  to  walk  before  me  in  truth  with  all  their 
heart  and  with  all  their  soul,  there  shall  not  fail  thee 
(said  he)  a  man  on  the  throne  of  Israel." 

Not  even  a  boy  of  fourteen  could  peruse  these  words 
unmoved,  coming,  as  they  did,  after  the  memorable  in- 
terview with  Bolland.  The  black  letters  seemed  to 
Martin  to  have  fiery  edges.  They  burnt  themselves  into 
his  brain.  In  years  to  come  they  were  fated  to  stand 
out  unbidden  before  the  eyes  of  his  soul  many  a  time 
and  oft. 

He  read  on,  but  soon  experienced  the  old  puzzled 
feeling  when  he  encountered  the  legacy  of  revenge  which 
David  bequeathed  to  his  son  after  delivering  that  in- 


152  The  Revellers 

spired  message.  It  reminded  Martin  of  the  farmer's 
dignified  and  quite  noble-hearted  renunciation  of  his  own 
dreams  in  order  to  follow  what  he  thought  was  the  bet- 
ter way,  to  be  succeeded  by  his  passage  to  the  farm 
buildings  across  the  road  in  order  to  box  the  ears  of  a 
lazy  hind. 

Ere  he  closed  the  book,  Martin  went  over  the  open- 
ing verses  of  the  chapter.  He  promised  himself  to  obey 
the  injunctions  therein  contained,  and  it  was  with  a 
host  of  unformed  ideals  churning  in  his  brain  that  he 
descended  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  Bolland  was  gazing  through  the  front  door. 

"  Mercy  on  us,"  she  cried,  "  if  there  isn't  Mrs. 
Saumarez  coomin'  doon  t'  road  wi'  t'  nuss  an'  her  little 
gell.  An'  don't  she  look  ill,  poor  thing !  I'll  lay  owt 
she  hez  eaten  summat  as  disagreed  wi'  her,  an'  it  gev 
her  a  bilious  attack." 

"  Dod,  ay,"  said  Mrs.  Summersgill.  "  Some  things 
are  easy  te  swallow,  but  hard  te  digest.  Ye  could  hev 
knocked  me  down  wi'  a  feather  when  our  Tommy  bolted 
a  glass  ally  last  June  twelve  months." 


CHAPTER  XII 
A  FRIENDLY  ARGUMENT 

MRS.  SAUMAREZ  did  indeed  look  unwell.  It  was  not 
that  her  pallor  was  marked  or  her  gait  feeble ;  obviously, 
she  had  applied  cosmetics  to  her  face,  and  her  carriage 
was  as  imposing  and  self-possessed  as  ever.  But  her 
cheeks  were  swollen,  her  eyes  bloodshot,  her  eyelids  puffy 
and  discolored.  To  a  certain  extent,  too,  she  simulated 
the  appearance  of  illness  by  wearing  a  veil  of  heliotrope 
tint,  for  it  was  part  of  her  intent  to-day  to  persuade 
Elmsdale  that  her  complete  seclusion  from  its  society 
during  the  past  forty-eight  hours  was  due  to  a  cause 
beyond  her  own  control. 

In  very  truth  this  was  so ;  she  suffered  from  a  malady 
far  worse  than  any  case  of  dyspepsia  ever  diagnosed  by 
doctor.  The  unfortunate  woman  was  an  erratic  dipso- 
maniac. She  would  exist  for  weeks  without  being  trou- 
bled by  a  craving  for  drink ;  then,  without  the  slightest 
warning  or  contributory  error  on  her  part,  the  demon 
of  intoxication  would  possess  her,  and  she  yielded  so 
utterly  as  to  become  a  terror  to  her  immediate  asso- 
ciates. 

The  Normandy  nurse,  Fran9oise,  exercised  a  firmer 
control  over  her  than  any  other  maid  she  had  ever 
employed ;  hence,  Fran9oise's  services  were  retained  long 
after  other  servants  had  left  their  mistress  in  disgust  or 
fright.  This  distressing  form  of  lunacy  seemed  also 

153 


154  The  Revellers 

to  account  for  the  roving  life  led  by  Mrs.  Saumarez. 
She  was  proud,  with  the  inbred  arrogance  of  the  Junker 
class  from  which  she  sprang.  She  would  not  endure  the 
scorn,  or,  mayhap,  the  sympathy  of  her  friends  or  de- 
pendants. Whenever  she  succumbed  to  her  malady  she 
usually  left  that  place  on  the  first  day  she  was  able  to 
travel. 

But  the  Elmsdale  attack,  thanks  to  a  limited  supply 
of  brandy  and  Eau  de  Cologne,  was  of  brief  duration. 
Fran9oise  knew  exactly  what  to  do.  Every  drop  of 
alcoholic  liquor — even  the  methylated  spirit  used  for 
heating  curling-irons — must  be  kept  out  of  her  mis- 
tress's way  during  the  ensuing  twenty-four  hours,  and  a 
deaf  ear  turned  to  frantic  pleadings  for  the  smallest 
quantity  of  any  intoxicant.  Threats,  tears,  pitiable 
requests,  physical  violence  at  times,  must  be  disregarded 
callously;  then  would  come  reaction,  followed  by  ex- 
treme exhaustion.  Fran9oise,  despising  her  German 
mistress,  nevertheless  had  the  avaricious  soul  of  a  French 
peasant,  and  was  amassing  a  small  fortune  by  attend- 
ing to  her. 

The  Misses  Walker  were  so  eager  to  retain  their 
wealthy  guest  that  they  pretended  absolute  ignorance 
of  her  condition.  They  succeeded  so  well — their  own 
dyspeptic  symptoms  were  described  with  such  ingenuous 
zeal — that  the  lady  believed  her  secret  was  unknown  to 
the  household  at  The  Elms. 

Oddly  enough,  certain  faculties  remained  clear  during 
these  attacks.  She  took  care  that  the  chauffeur  should 
not  see  her,  and  remembered  also  that  young  Martin 
Bolland  had  conversed  with  her  while  she  was  in  the 
worst  paroxysm  of  drink-craving.  He  was  a  quick  boy, 


A  Friendly  Argument  155 

observant  beyond  his  age.  What  did  he  know?  What 
wondrous  tale  had  he  spread  through  the  village?  A 
visit  to  his  mother,  a  meeting  with  the  gossip-loving 
women  sure  to  be  gathered  beneath  the  farmer's  hos- 
pitable roof,  would  tell  her  all.  She  nerved  herself  for 
the  ordeal,  and  approached  slowly,  fearfully,  but  out- 
wardly dignified  as  ever. 

Mrs.  Bolland's  hearty  greeting  was  reassuring. 

"  Eh,  my  lady,  but  ye  do  look  poorly,  te  be  sure. 
I've  bin  worritin'  te  think  ye've  mebbe  bin  upset  by  all 
this  racket  i'  t'  place,  when  ye  kem  here  for  rest  an' 
quiet." 

Mrs.  Saumarez  smiled. 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Bolland,"  she  said.  "  I 
cannot  blame  Elmsdale,  except,  perhaps,  that  your  won- 
derful air  braced  up  my  appetite  too  greatly,  and  I  had 
to  pay  the  penalty  for  so  many  good  things  to 
eat."  " 

"  Ay,  I  said  so,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Summersgill,  in  the 
accents  of  deep  conviction.  "  Ower  much  grub  an'  nowt 
te  do  is  bad  for  man  or  beast." 

Mrs.  Saumarez  laughed  frankly  at  that. 

"  In  which  category  do  you  place  me,  Mrs.  Summers- 
gill?  "  she  inquired.  Meanwhile,  her  eyes  wandered  to 
where  Martin  stood.  She  was  asking  herself  why  the 
boy  should  gaze  so  fixedly  at  Angele. 

The  stout  party  did  not  know  what  a  category  was. 
She  thought  it  was  some  species  of  malady. 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  she  cried,  "  if  I  was  you,  I'd  try 
rabbit  meat  for  a  few  days.  Eat  plenty  o'  green  stuff' 
an'  shun  t'  teapot.  It's  slow  p'ison." 

She  stretched  out  a  huge  arm  and  poured  out  a  cup 


156  The  Revellers 

of  tea.  There  was  a  general  laugh  at  this  forgetful- 
ness.  Mrs.  Sumraersgill  waved  aside  criticism. 

"  Ay,  ay ! "  she  went  on,  "  it's  easier  te  preach  than 
te  practice,  as  t'  man  said  when  he  fell  off  a  haystack 
efther  another  man  shooted  tiv  him  te  ho'd  fast." 

Mrs.  Saumarez  took  a  seat.  Thus  far,  matters  had 
gone  well.  But  why  did  Martin  avoid  her? 

"  Martin,  my  little  friend,"  she  said,  "  why  did  you 
not  come  in  and  see  me  yesterday  when  you  called  at 
The  Elms?" 

"  Miss  Walker  did  not  wish  it,"  was  the  candid 
answer.  "  I  suppose  she  thought  I  might  be  in  the  way 
when  you  were  so  ill." 

"  There  nivver  was  sike  a  bairn,"  protested  Martha 
Bolland.  "  He's  close  as  wax  sometimes.  Not  a  wud 
did  he  say,  whether  ye  were  ill  or  well,  Mrs.  Saumarez." 

The  lady's  glance  rested  more  graciously  on  the  boy. 
She  noticed  his  bandaged  arms  and  hands. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked.  "Have  you 
been  scalding  yourself?  " 

Martin  reddened.  It  was  Angele  who  answered 
quickly : 

"You  were  too  indisposed  last  night  to  hear  the 
story,  chere  maman.  It  was  all  over  the  village.  H  y 
a  tout  le  monde  qui  sait.  Martin  saved  Elsie  Herbert 
from  a  wildcat.  It  almost  tore  him  into  little  pieces." 

And  so  the  conversation  glided  safely  away  from  the 
delicate  topic  of  Mrs.  Saumarez's  sudden  ailment.  She 
praised  Martin's  bravery  in  her  polished  way.  She 
expressed  proper  horror  when  the  wildcat's  skin  was 
brought  in  for  her  edification,  and  became  so  lively,  so 
animated,  that  she  actually  asked  Mrs.  Bolland  for 


A  Friendly  Argument  157 

some  tea,  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Summersgill's  earnest 
warnings. 

She  made  a  hearty  meal.  Fran9oise,'too,  joined  in  the 
feast,  her  homely  Norman  face  perceptibly  relaxing  its 
grim  vigilance.  Her  mistress  was  safe  now,  for  a  month, 
two  months,  perchance  six.  The  desire  for  food  was  the 
ultimate  sign  of  complete  recovery — for  the  time.  Had 
Mrs.  Saumarez  dared  ask  for  a  glass  of  beer  from  the 
majestic  cask  in  the  corner,  Fran9oise  would  have  pre- 
vented her  from  taking  it,  using  force  if  necessary.  The 
sturdy  peasant  from  Tinchebrai  was  of  stronger  moral 
fiber  than  the  born  aristocrat,  and  her  mistress 
knew  it. 

Martin  stood  somewhat  shyly  near  the  broad  ingle. 
Angele  approached.  She  caressed  his  lint-wrapped 
arms,  saying  sweetly: 

"  Do  they  pain  you  a  great  deal  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  They're  just  a  bit  sore  to  the 
touch— that's  all." 

His  manner  was  politely  repellant.  He  wished  she 
would  not  pat  him  with  her  nervous  fingers.  She  pawed 
him  like  a  playful  cat.  To-day  she  wore  the  beautiful 
muslin  frock  he  had  admired  so  greatly  on  the  first  day 
of  the  fair.  The  deep  brim  of  her  hat  concealed  her 
eyes  from  all  but  his. 

"  I  am  quite  jealous  of  Elsie,"  she  murmured.  "  It 
must  be  simply  lovely  to  be  rescued  in  that  way.  Poor 
little  me!  At  home  nursing  mamma,  while  you  were 
fighting  for  another  girl !  " 

"  The  thing  was  not  worth  so  much  talk.  I  did  noth- 
ing that  any  other  boy  would  not  have  done." 

"  My  wud,"  cried  Mrs.  Summersgill  suddenly,  "  it'd 


158  The  Revellers 

do  your  little  lass  a  power  o'  good  te  git  some  o'  that 
fat  beacon  intiv  her,  Mrs.  Saumarez." 

From  the  smoke-blackened  rafters  over  the  spacious 
fireplace  were  hanging  a  dozen  sides  of  home-cured 
bacon,  huge  toothsome  slabs  suggesting  mounds  of  lus- 
cious rashers.  The  sturdy  boy  beneath  gave  proof  that 
there  was  good  nutriment  in  such  ample  store,  but  the 
girl  was  so  fragile,  so  fairy-like  in  her  gossamer  wings, 
that  she  might  have  been  reared  on  the  scent  of  flowers. 

The  attention  thus  drawn  to  the  two  caused  Martin 
to  flush  again,  but  Angele  wheeled  round. 

"  Do  all  pigs  grow  fat  when  they  are  old  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nay,  lass,  that  they  don't.  We  feed  'em  te  mak' 
'em  fat  while  they're  young,  but  some  pigs  are  skinny 
'uns  always." 

Mrs.  Saumarez  smiled  indulgently  at  this  passage 
between  two  such  sharp-tongued  combatants.  Angele's 
eyes  blazed.  Fran9oise,  eating  steadily,  wondered  what 
had  been  said  to  make  the  women  laugh,  the  child  angry. 

Angele  caught  the  astonished  expression  on  the  nurse's 
face.  Quickly  her  mood  changed.  Fran9oise  sat  near. 
She  bent  over  and  whispered : 

"  Tiens,  nanna !  Voici  une  vieille  truie  qui  parle 
comme  nous  autres !  " 

Fran9oise  nearly  choked  under  a  combination  of  pro- 
test and  bread  crumbs.  Before  she  could  recover  her 
breath  at  hearing  Mrs.  Summersgill  described  "  an  old 
sow  who  talks  like  one  of  us !  "  Angele  cried  airily  to 
Martin : 

"  Take  me  to  the  stables.  I  haven't  seen  the  pony 
and  the  dogs  for  days  and  days." 

He  was  glad  to  escape.     He  dreaded  Mrs.  Summers- 


A  Friendly  Argument  159 

gill's  mordant  humor  if  a  war  of  wits  broke  out  between 
her  and  the  girl. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  I'll  whistle  for  Curly  and  Jim 
at  the  back  and  join  you  at  the  gate." 

But  Angele  skipped  lightly  toward  her  hostess. 

"  Please,  Mrs.  Holland,"  she  said  coaxingly,  "  may  I 
not  go  through  the  back  kitchen,  too?  " 

"  Sure-ly,  honey,"  cried  Martha.  "  One  way's  as 
good  as  another.  Martin,  tak  t'  young  leddy  anywheres 
she  wants  te  go,  an'  dinnat  be  so  gawky.  She  won't 
bite  ye." 

The  two  passed  into  the  farmyard. 

"  You  see,  Martin,"  explained  Angele  coolly,  "  I 
must  find  out  how  Jim  Bates  and  Tommy  Beadlam 
always  get  hold  of  you  without  other  people  being  the 
wiser.  Show  me  the  lane  and  the  paddock  they  tell 
me  of." 

"  I  don't  see  why  it  should  interest  you,"  was  the 
ungracious  reply. 

"  You  dear  boy !  Are  you  angry  yet  because  I 
wouldn't  let  you  kiss  me  the  other  night?  " 

He  was  compelled  to  laugh  at  the  outrageous  untruth. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  spoke  very  crossly  then,"  he  admitted, 
thinking  it  best  to  avoid  argument. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  wept  for  hours.  My  poor  little  eyes 
were  sore  yesterday.  Look  and  see  if  they  are  red  now." 

They  were  standing  behind  the  woodpile.  She  thrust 
her  face  temptingly  near.  Her  beautiful  eyes,  clear  and 
limpid  in  their  dark  depths,  blinked  saucily.  Her  parted 
lips  revealed  two  rows  of  white,  even  teeth,  and  her 
sweet  breath  mingled  with  the  fragrance  that  always 
clung  to  her  garments.  He  experienced  a  new  timidity 


160  The  Revellers 

now ;  he  was  afraid  of  her  in  this  mood,  though  secretly 
flattered  by  the  homage  she  was  paying. 

"  Martin,"  she  whispered,  "  I  like  you  better  than 
any  of  the  other  boys,  oh,  a  great  deal  better,  even 
though  Evelyn  Atkinson  does  say  you  are  a  milksop." 

What  a  hateful  word  to  apply  to  one  whose  flesh  was 
scarred  by  the  claws  of  an  infuriated  wildcat  conquered 
in  fair  fight.  Milksop,  indeed !  He  knew  Angele's  ways 
well  enough  by  this  time  to  give  convincing  proof  that 
he  was  no  milksop. 

He  placed  his  bandaged  right  arm  around  her  waist, 
boldly  drew  her  toward  him,  and  kissed  her  three  times — 
on  the  lips. 

"  That  is  more  than  I  ever  did  to  Evelyn  Atkinson," 
he  said. 

She  returned  the  embrace  with  ardor. 

"  Oh,  Martin,  I  do  love  you,"  she  sighed.  "  And  you 
fought  for  me  as  well  as  for  Elsie,  didn't  you  ?  " 

If  the  thought  were  grateful  to  Angele,  it  stung  the 
boy's  conscience.  Under  what  different  circumstances 
had  he  defended  the  two  girls!  He  grew  scarlet  with 
confusion  and  sought  to  unclasp  those  twining  arms. 

"  Someone  may  see  us,"  he  protested. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  cooed.  "  Tommy  Beadlam  is 
watching  us  now  over  the  hedge.  Tell  him  to  go  away." 

He  wrenched  himself  free.  True  enough,  "  White 
Head  "  was  gazing  at  them,  eyes  and  mouth  wideropen. 

"  Hello,  Tommy !  "  shouted  Martin. 

"  By  gum !  "  gasped  Tommy. 

But  the  spell  was  broken,  and  the  three  joined  com- 
pany to  make  a  tour  of  the  farm.  Angele  was  quite 
unembarrassed  and  promptly  rescued  both  boys  from 


A  Friendly  Argument  161 

sheepishness.  She  knew  that  the  observant  "  White 
Head  "  would  harrow  Evelyn  Atkinson's  soul  with  a  full 
description  of  the  tender  episode  behind  the  big  pile  of 
wood.  This  pleased  her  more  than  Martin's  gruff 
"  spooning." 

Inside  the  farmhouse  conversation  progressed  vigor- 
ously. Mrs.  Saumarez  joined  in  the  talk  with  zest. 
The  quaint  gossip  of  the  women  interested  her.  She 
learnt,  seemingly  with  surprise,  that  these,  her  humble 
sisters,  were  swayed  by  emotions  near  akin  to  her  own. 
Some  quiet  chronicle  of  a  mother's  loss  by  the  death  of 
a  soldier  son  in  far-off  South  Africa  touched  a  dormant 
chord  in  her  heart. 

"  My  husband  was  killed  in  that  foolish  war,"  she 
said.  "  I  never  think  of  it  without  a  shudder." 

"  I  reckon  he'd  be  an  officer,  ma'am,"  said  Martha. 

"  Yes ;  he  was  shot  while  leading  his  regiment  in  a 
cavalry  charge  at  the  Modder  River." 

"  It's  a  dreadful  thing,  is  war,"  observed  the  bereaved 
mother.  "  My  lad  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly,  yet  his  capt'in 
wrote  such  a  nice  letter,  sayin'  as  how  Willie  had  killed 
four  Boers  afore  he  was  struck  down.  T'  capt'in  meant 
it  kindly,  no  doot,  but  it  gev  me  small  consolation." 

"  It  is  the  wives  and  mothers  who  suffer  most.  Men 
like  the  army.  I  suppose  if  my  child  were  a  boy  he 
would  enter  the  service." 

"  Thank  the  Lord,  Martin  won't  be  a  sojer!  "  cried 
Martha  fervently. 

"  You're  going  to  make  him  a  minister,  are  you  not?  " 

"  Noa,"  said  John  Bolland's  deep  voice  from  the  door. 
"  He's  goin'  to  college.  I've  settled  it  to-day." 

None  present  appreciated  the  force  of  this  statement 


162  The  Revellers 

like  Martha,  and  she  resented  such  a  momentous  decision 
being  arrived  at  without  her  knowledge.  Her  head  bent, 
and  twitching  fingers  sought  the  ends  of  her  apron. 
John  strode  ponderously  forward  and  placed  a  huge 
hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Dinnat  be  vexed,  Martha,"  he  said  gently.  "  I 
hadn't  a  chance  te  speak  wi'  ye  sen  Dr.  MacGregor  an' 
me  had  a  bit  crack  about  t'  lad.  I  didn't  need  te  coom 
te  you  for  counsel.  Who  knew  better'n  me  that  yer 
heart  was  set  on  Martin  bein'  browt  up  a  gentleman?  " 

This  recognition  of  motherly  rights  somewhat  molli- 
fied his  wife. 

"  Eh,  but  I'm  main  pleased,  John,"  she  said.  "  Yet 
I'll  be  sorry  to  lose  him." 

"  Ye'll  wear  yer  knuckles  te  t'  bone  makkin'  him  fine 
shirts  an'  fallals,  all  t'  same,"  laughed  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  had  seen  the  glint  of  tears  in  Mrs. 
Bolland's  eyes,  and  came  to  the  rescue  with  a  request 
for  a  second  cup  of  tea. 

"  England  is  fortunate  in  being  an  island,"  she  said. 
"  Now,  in  my  native  land  every  man  has  to  serve  in  the 
army.  It  cannot  be  avoided,  you  know.  Germany  has 
France  on  the  one  hand  and  Russia  on  the  other,  each 
ready  to  spring  if  she  relaxes  her  vigilance  for  a 
moment." 

"  Is  that  so?  "  inquired  Bolland.    "  I  wunner  why?  " 

The  lady  smiled. 

"  That  is  a  wide  political  question,"  she  replied.  "  To 
give  one  reason  out  of  many,  look  at  our — at  Germany's 
thousand  miles  of  open  frontier." 

"  Right  enough,  ma'am.  But  why  is  Jarmany 
buildin'  such  a  big  fleet  ?  " 


A  Friendly  Argument  163 

Mrs.  Saumarez  raised  her  lorgnette.  She  had  not 
expected  so  apt  a  retort. 

"  She  is  gathering  colonies,  and  already  owns  a  huge 
mercantile  marine.  Surely,  these  interests  call  for  ade- 
quate protection?  " 

"  Nobody's  threatenin*  'em,  so  far  as  I  can  see,"  per- 
sisted Bolland. 

"  Not  at  present.  But  a  wise  government  looks  ahead 
of  the  hour.  Germany's  aim  is  to  educate  the  world  by 
her  culture.  She  is  doing  it  already,  as  any  of  your  own 
well-informed  leading  men  will  tell  you;  but  the  time 
may  come  when,  in  her  zeal  for  advancement,  she  may 
tread  on  somebody's  toes,  so  she  must  be  prepared,  both 
on  land  and  sea.  Fortunately,  this  is  the  one  country 
she  will  never  attack." 

John  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  none  so  sure,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  hevn't  much 
time  fer  readin',  but  I  did  happen  t'other  day  on  a 
speech  by  Lord  Roberts  which  med  me  scrat  me  head. 
Beg  pardon,  ma'am.  I  mean  it  med  me  think." 

"  Lord  Roberts !  "  began  the  lady  scornfully.  Then 
she  sipped  her  tea,  and  the  pause  gave  time  to  collect 
her  wits.  "  You  must  remember  that  he  is  a  professional 
soldier,  and  his  views  are  tainted  by  militarism." 

"  Isn't  that  the  trouble  i'  Jarmany  ?  " 

Mrs.  Saumarez  drank  more  tea. 

"  Circumstances  alter  cases,"  she  said.  "  The  broad 
fact  remains  that  Germany  harbors  no  evil  designs 
against  Great  Britain.  She  believes  the  world  holds 
plenty  of  room  for  both  powers.  And,  when  all  is  said 
and  done,  why  should  the  two  nations  quarrel?  They 
are  kith  and  kin.  They  look  at  life  from  the  same  view- 


164  The  Revellers 

points.  Even  their  languages  are  alike.  Hardly  a  word 
in  your  quaint  Yorkshire  dialect  puzzles  me  now,  because 
I  recognize  its  source  in  the  older  German  and  in  the 
current  speech  of  our  Baltic  provinces.  Germany  and 
England  should  be  friends,  not  enemies.  It  will  be  a 
happy  day  for  England  when  she  ceases  worrying  about 
German  measures  of  self-defense,  but  tries,  rather,  to 
imitate  her  wonderful  achievements  in  every  field  of 
science.  Any  woman  who  uses  fabrics  need  not  be  told 
how  Germany  has  taught  the  whole  world  how  to  make 
aniline  dyes,  while  her  chemists  are  now  modernizing  the 
old-time  theories  of  agriculture.  You,  Mr.  Bolland,  as 
a  practical  farmer,  can  surely  bear  out  that  conten- 
tion?" 

"  Steady  on,  ma'am,"  said  Bolland,  leaning  forward, 
with  hands  on  knees,  and  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  speaker 
in  an  almost  disconcerting  intensity.  "  T'  Jarmans  hev 
med  all  t'  wo'ld  buy  their  dyes,  but  there  hezn't  been 
much  teachin',  as  I've  heerd  tell  of.  As  for  farmin',  they 
coom  here  year  after  year  an'  snap  up  our  best  stock  i' 
horses  an'  cattle  te  improve  their  own  breeds.  7  can't 
grummel  at  that.  They  compete  wi'  t'  Argentine  an'  t' 
United  States,  an'  up  go  my  prices.  Still,  I  do  think 
our  government  is  te  blame  for  lettin'  our  finest  stallions 
an'  brood  mares  leave  t'  country.  They  differ  frae 
cattle.  They're  bowt  for  use  i'  t'  army,  an'  we're  bein' 
drained  dhry.  That's  bad  for  us.  An'  why  are  they 
doin'it?" 

Mrs.  Saumarez  pushed  away  her  cup  and  saucer.  She 
laughed  nervously,  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  gone  a 
little  further  than  was  intended. 

"  There,  there !  "  she  cried  pleasantly.     "  I  am  only 


A  Friendly  Argument  165 

trying  to  show  you  Germany's  open  aims,  but  some 
Englishmen  persist  in  attributing  a  hostile  motive  to  her 
every  act.  You  see,  I  know  Germany,  and  few  people 
here  trouble  either  to  learn  the  language  or  visit  the 
country." 

"  Likely  not,  ma'am,"  was  the  ironical  answer.  "  Mr. 
Pickerin'  went  te  some  pleace — Bremen,  I  think  they  call 
it — two  year  sen  this  July,  te  see  a  man  who'd  buy  every 
Cleveland  bay  he  could  offer.  George  had  just  been  med 
an  officer  i'  t'  Territorials — which  meant  a  week's 
swankin'  aboot  i'  uniform  at  a  camp,  an'  givin'  his  men 
free  beer  an'  pork  pies  te  attend  a  few  drills — an'  he 
was  fule  enough  te  carry  a  valise  wi'  his  rank  an'  regi- 
ment painted  on  it.  Why,  they  watched  him  like  a  cat 
watchin'  a  mouse.  He  couldn't  eat  a  bite  or  tak  a  pint 
o'  their  light  beer  that  a  'tec  wasn't  sittin'  at  t'  next 
table.  They  fairly  chased  him  away.  Even  his  friend, 
the  hoss-buyer,  got  skeered  at  last,  an'  advised  him  te 
quit  te  avoid  arrest." 

"  That  must  have  been  a  wholly  exceptional  case," 
said  Mrs.  Saumarez,  speaking  in  a  tone  of  utter  indiffer- 
ence. "  Had  I  known  him,  for  instance,  and  given  him 
a  letter  of  introduction,  he  would  have  been  wel- 
comed, not  suspected.  By  the  way,  how  is  he  ?  I 
hear " 

The  conversation  was  steered  into  a  safer  channel, 
They  were  discussing  the  wounded  man's  condition  when 
Mrs.  Saumarez's  car  passed.  The  door  stood  open,  so 
they  all  noted  that  the  vehicle  was  white  with  dust,  but 
the  chauffeur  was  the  sole  occupant. 

"  Her  ladyship  "  was  pleased  to  explain. 

"  It  is  a  new  car,  so  Fritz  took  it  for  a  long  spin  to- 


166  The  Revellers 

day,"  she  said.  "  You  will  understand,  Mr.  Bolland, 
that  the  engine  has  to  find  itself,  as  the  phrase  goes." 

"  Expensive  work,  ma'am,"  smiled  John,  rising.  "  An' 
now,  good  folk,"  he  continued,  "  whea's  comin'  te  t' 
love  feast  ?  " 

There  was  a  general  movement.  The  assembly  dear 
to  old-time  Methodism  appealed  to  the  majority  of  the 
company.  Mrs.  Saumarez  raised  her  lorgnette  once 
more. 

"  What  is  a  love  feast?  "  she  asked. 

"  It's  a  gathering  o'  members  o'  our  communion, 
ma'am,"  was  Holland's  ready  answer. 

"  May  I  come,  too?  " 

Instantly  a  rustle  of  surprise  swept  through  her  hear- 
ers. Even  John  Bolland  was  so  taken  aback  that  he 
hesitated  to  reply.  But  the  lady  seemed  to  be  in  earnest. 

"  I  really  mean  it,"  she  went  on.  "  I  have  a  spare 
hour,  and,  as  I  don't  care  for  dinner  to-night,  I'll  be 
most  pleased  to  attend — that  is,  if  I  may?  " 

The  farmer  came  nearer.  He  looked  at  the  bulbous 
eyelids,  the  too-evenly  tinted  skin,  the  turgid  veins  in 
the  brilliant  eyes,  and  perhaps  saw  more  than  Mrs. 
Saumarez  dreamed. 

"  Happen  it'll  be  an  hour  well  spent,  ma'am,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  Admission  is  by  membership  ticket,  but  t' 
minister  gev'  me  a  few  *  permits  '  for  outside  friends, 
an'  I'll  fill  yan  in  for  ye  wi'  pleasure." 

He  produced  some  slips  of  paper  bearing  the  written 

words,  "  Admit  Brother  "  or  "  Sister  ,"  and 

signed,  "  Eli  Todd."  With  a  stubby  pencil  he  scrawled 
"  Saumarez  "  in  a  blank  space.  The  lady  thanked  him, 
and  gave  some  instructions  in  French  to  Fran9oise. 


A  Friendly  Argument  167 

Five  minutes  later  "  Sister  Saumarez,"  escorted  by 
"  Brother  "  and  "  Sister  "  BoUand,  entered  the  village 
meetinghouse. 

The  appearance  of  a  fashionable  dame  in  their  midst 
created  a  mild  sensation  among  the  small  congregation 
already  collected.  They  were  mostly  old  or  middle-aged 
people;  youngsters  were  conspicuous  by  their  absence. 
There  was  a  dance  that  night  in  a  tent  erected  in  a  field 
close  to  the  chapel;  in  the  boxing  booth  the  semi-final 
round  would  be  fought  for  the  Elmsdale  championship. 
Against  these  rival  attractions  the  Gospel  was  not  a 
"  draw." 

Gradually  the  spacious  but  bare  room — so  unlike 
all  that  Mrs.  Saumarez  knew  of  churches — became  fairly 
well  filled.  As  the  church  clock  chimed  the  half-hour 
after  six  the  Rev.  Eli  Todd  came  in  from  a  neighboring 
classroom.  This  was  the  preacher  with  the  powerful 
voice,  but  his  bell-like  tones  were  subdued  and  reverent 
enough  in  the  opening  prayer.  He  uttered  a  few  earnest 
sentences  and  quickly  evoked  responses  from  the  people. 
The  first  time  John  Bolland  cried  "  Amen ! "  Mrs. 
Saumarez  started.  She  thought  her  friend  had  made  a 
mistake,  and  her  nerves  were  on  edge.  But  the  next 
period  produced  a  hearty  "Hallelujah!"  and  others 
•joined  in  with  "  Glory  be !  "  "  Thy  will,  O  Lord !  "  and 
kindred  ejaculations. 

One  incident  absolutely  amazed  her.  The  minister 
was  reciting  the  Lord's  Prayer. 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,"  he  said. 

"  And  no  baccy,  Lord ! "  growled  a  voice  from  the 
rear  of  the  chapel. 

The  minister  had  a  momentary  difficulty  in  concluding 


168  The  Revellers 

the  petition,  and  a  broad  grin  ran  through  the  congre- 
gation. Mrs.  Saumarez  learned  subsequently  that  the 
interrupter  was  a  converted  poacher,  who  abandoned  his 
pipe,  together  with  gun  and  beer  jug,  "  when  he  found 
Christ."  Eli  Todd  was  a  confirmed  smoker,  and  the  two 
were  ever  at  variance  on  the  point. 

All  stood  up  when  their  pastor  gave  out  the  opening 
verses  of  a  hymn : 

'  0  what  a  joyful  meeting  there, 

In  robes  of  white  arrayed; 
Palms  in  our  hands  we  all  shall  bear 

And  crowns  upon  our  heads. 

The  joyous  energy  of  his  declamation,  the  no  less 
eager  volume  of  sound  that  arose  from  the  congregation, 
atoned  for  any  deficiencies  of  meter  or  rhyme.  The 
village  worshipers  lost  themselves  in  the  influence  of  the 
moment.  With  spiritual  vision  they  saw  the  last  great 
meeting,  and  thundered  vociferously  the  closing  lines  of 
the  chorus: 

'  And  then  we  shall  in  Heaven  reign, 
And  never,  never  part  again. 

"  Grace  before  meat "  was  sung,  and,  to  Mrs. 
Saumarez's  great  discomfiture,  bread  and  water  were 
passed  round.  Each  one  partook  save  herself;  Bolland, 
with  real  tact,  missed  her  in  handing  the  tray  and 
pitcher  to  the  other  occupants  of  their  pew. 

"  Grace  after  meat "  followed,  and  forthwith  Eli 
Todd  began  to  deliver  an  address.  His  discourse  was 


A  Friendly  Argument  169 

simple  and  well  reasoned,  dealing  wholly  with  the  suste- 
nance derived  from  God's  saving  spirit.  It  may  be  that 
the  unexpected  presence  of  a  stranger  like  Mrs. 
Saumarez  exercised  a  slightly  unnerving  influence,  as 
he  spoke  more  seriously  and  with  less  dramatic  intensity 
than  was  his  wont. 

Suddenly  he  rebelled  against  this  sensation  of  re- 
straint. Changing,  with  the  skill  of  a  born  revivalist, 
from  the  rounded  periods  of  ordinary  English  to  the 
homely  vernacular  of  the  district,  he  thundered  out : 

"  There's  noa  cittidell  o'  sin  'at  God  cannot  destroy. 
Ay,  friends,  t'  sword  o'  t'  Spirit  s'all  oppen  a  way 
through  walls  o'  brass  an'  iron  yats  (gates).  Wean't 
ye  jine  His  conquerin'  army?  He's  willin'  te  list  ye  ,noo. 
There's  none  o'  yer  short  service  whilst  ye  dea  t'  Lord's 
work — it's  for  ivver  an'  ivver,  an'  yer  pension  is  life 
ivverlastin'." 

And  so  the  curious  service  went  to  its  end,  which  came 
not  until  various  members  of  the  congregation  made 
public  confession  of  faith,  personal  statements  which 
often  consisted  of  question  and  answer  between  pastor 
and  penitent.  It  was  a  strange  interrogatory.  Eli 
Todd  had  a  ready  quip,  a  quick  appreciation,  an  em- 
phatic or  amusing  disclaimer,  for  each  and  every  avowal 
of  broad-minded  Christianity  or  intolerant  views.  For 
these  dalesfolk  did  not  all  think  alike.  Some  were  in- 
clined to  damn  others  who  did  not  see  through  the 
myopic  lenses  of  their  own  spiritual  spectacles. 

The  preacher  would  have  none  of  this  exclusive  right- 
eousness. As  he  said,  in  his  own  strenuous  way: 

"  The  Lord  is  ivverywhere.  He  isn't  a  prisoner  i' 
this  little  room  te-night.  He's  yonder  i'  t'  street  amang 


170  The  Revellers 

t'  organs  an'  shows.  He's  yonder  i'  t'  tent  where  fool- 
ish youths  an'  maidens  cannot  see  Him.  If  ye  seek  Him 
ye'll  find  Him,  ay,  in  the  abodes  of  sin  and  the  palaces 
of  wantonness.  No  door  can  be  closed  to  His  saving 
mercy,  no  heart  too  hardened  to  resist  His  love." 

As  it  happened,  his  glance  fell  on  Mrs.  Saumarez  as 
he  uttered  the  concluding  words,  and  his  voice  uncon- 
sciously tuned  itself  to  suit  her  understanding.  She 
dropped  her  eyes,  and  the  observant  minister  thought 
that  she  was  reading  a  personal  meaning  into  his  address. 

At  once  he  began  the  "  Doxology,"  which  was  sung 
with  great  fervor,  and  the  love  feast  broke  up  after  a 
brief  prayer.  Mr.  Todd  overtook  Mrs.  Saumarez  on  the 
green.  Bolland  and  his  wife  were  escorting  her  to  The 
Elms. 

"  I  hope  you  liked  the  service,  madam,"  he  said 
politely. 

"  I  thought  it  most  interesting,"  she  answered  slowly. 
"  I  think  I  shall  come  again." 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  assured  her  that  she  would 
always  be  welcome  at  Bethel  Chapel.  He,  worthy  man, 
no  less  than  the  Bollands,  could  little  guess  this  woman's 
motives  in  thus  currying  favor  with  the  villagers.  Had 
an  angel  from  Heaven  laid  bare  her  intent,  they  would 
scarce  have  believed,  or,  if  conviction  came,  they  would 
only  have  deemed  her  mad. 

A  breathless  Fran9oise  met  her  mistress  at  the  gate. 
Angele  was  not  to  be  found  anywhere,  and  it  was  so  late, 
nearly  eight  o'clock.  Nor  was  Martin  to  be  seen. 
Madam  would  remember,  they  had  gone  off  together. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  explained  what  all  the  gesticulation 
was  about. 


A  Friendly  Argument  171 

"  If  she's  wi'  Martin,  she'll  be  all  right,"  said  Holland. 
"  He'll  bring  her  yam  afore  ye  git  yer  things  off,  ma'am." 

He  was  right.  Angele  had  discovered  that  Elsie 
Herbert  would  be  at  the  church  bazaar  that  evening,  and 
planned  the  ramble  with  Martin  so  that  the  vicar's 
daughter  might  meet  them  together  on  the  high  road. 

It  delighted  her  to  see  the  only  rival  she  feared  flash 
a  quick  side  glance  as  she  bowed  smilingly  and  passed  on, 
for  Mr.  Herbert  did  not  wholly  approve  of  Angele,  so 
Elsie  thought  it  best  not  to  stop  for  a  chat.  Martin, 
too,  was  annoyed  as  he  doffed  his  cap.  He  thought 
Elsie  would  surely  ask  how  he  was.  Moreover,  those 
hot  kisses  were  burning  yet  on  his  lips;  the  memory 
made  him  profoundly  uncomfortable. 

That  was  all.  When  he  left  Angele  at  the  gate  she 
did  not  suggest  a  rendezvous  at  a  later  hour.  Not  only 
would  it  be  useless,  but  she  had  seen  Frank  Beckett- 
Smythe  earlier  in  the  day,  and  he  said  there  was  a  dinner 
party  at  the  Hall. 

Perhaps  he  might  be  able  to  slip  away  unnoticed 
about  nine. 


CHAPTER  XIH 
A  DYING  DEPOSITION 

BEFORE  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  sat  down  to  dinner  that 
evening  a  very  unpleasant  duty  had  been  thrust  on  him. 

The  superintendent  of  police  drove  over  from  Not- 
tonby  to  show  him  the  county  analyst's  report. 
Divested  of  technicalities,  this  document  proved  that 
George  Pickering's  dangerous  condition  arose  from 
blood  poisoning  caused  by  a  stab  from  a  contaminated 
knife.  It  was  admitted  that  a  wound  inflicted  by  a 
rusty  pitchfork  might  have  had  equally  serious  results, 
but  the  analysis  of  matter  obtained  from  both  instru- 
ments proved  conclusively  that  the  knife  alone  was  im- 
pregnated with  the  putrid  germs  found  in  the  blood 
corpuscles,  which  also  contained  an  undue  proportion 
of  alcohol. 

Moreover,  Dr.  MacGregor's  statement  on  the  one 
vital  point  was  unanswerable.  Pickering  was  suffering 
from  an  incised  wound  which  could  not  have  been  in- 
flicted by  the  rounded  prongs  of  a  fork.  The  doctor 
was  equally  emphatic  in  his  belief  that  the  injured  man 
would  succumb  speedily. 

In  the  face  of  these  documents  it  was  necessary  that 
George  Pickering's  depositions  should  be  taken  by  a 
magistrate.  Most  unwillingly,  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  ac- 
companied the  superintendent  to  the  "  Black  Lion 
Hotel "  for  the  purpose. 

172 


A  Dying  Deposition  173 

They  entered  the  sick  room  about  the  time  that  Mrs. 
Saumarez  was  crossing  the  green  on  her  way  to  the 
Methodist  Chapel.  A  glance  at  Pickering's  face  showed 
that  the  doctor  had  not  exaggerated  the  gravity  of  the 
affair.  He  was  deathly  pale,  save  for  a  number  of  vivid 
red  spots  on  his  skin.  His  eyes  shone  with  fever.  Were 
not  his  malady  identified,  the  unskilled  observer  might 
conclude  that  he  was  suffering  from  a  severe  attack  of 
German  measles. 

Betsy  was  there,  and  the  prim  nurse.  The  contrast 
between  the  two  women  was  almost  as  startling  as  the 
change  for  the  worse  in  Pickering's  appearance.  The 
nurse,  strictly  professional  in  deportment,  paid  heed 
to  naught  save  the  rules  of  treatment.  The  word  "  hos- 
pital," "  certificate,"  "  method,"  shrieked  silently  from 
her  flowing  coif  and  list  slippers,  from  the  clinical  ther- 
mometer on  the  table,  and  the  temperature  chart  on  the 
mantelpiece. 

Poor  Betsy  was  sitting  by  the  bedside,  holding  her 
lover's  hand.  She  was  smiling  wistfully,  striving  to 
chatter  in  cheerful  strain,  yet  all  the  time  she  wanted 
to  wail  her  despair,  to  petition  on  her  knees  that 
her  crime  might  be  avenged  on  herself,  not  on  its 
victim. 

When  the  magistrate  stepped  gingerly  forward, 
Pickering  turned  querulously  to  see  who  the  visitor  was, 
for  the  nurse  had  nodded  permission  to  enter  when  the 
two  men  looked  through  the  half-open  door. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  squire,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
thought  it  might  be  MacGregor." 

"  How  are  you  feeling  now,  George  ?  " 

"  Pretty  sick.    I  suppose  you've  heard  the  verdict?  " 


174  The  Revellers 

"  The  doctor  says  you  are  in  a  bad  state." 

"  Booked,  squire,  booked !  And  no  return  ticket.  I 
don't  care.  I've  made  all  arrangements — that  is,  I'll 
have  a  free  mind  this  time  to-morrow — and  then,  well, 
I'll  face  the  music." 

He  caught  sight  of  the  police  officer. 

"  Hello,  Jonas !  You  there  ?  Come  for  my  last  dying 
depositions,  eh?  All  right.  Fire  away!  Betsy,  my 
lass,  leave  us  for  a  bit.  The  nurse  can  stay.  The  more 
witnesses  the  merrier." 

Betsy  arose.  There  was  no  fear  in  her  eyes  now — 
only  dumb  agony.  She  walked  steadily  from  the  room. 
While  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  was  thanking  Providence 
under  his  breath  that  a  most  distressing  task  was  thus 
being  made  easy  for  him,  they  all  heard  a  dreadful  sob 
from  the  exterior  landing,  followed  by  a  heavy  thud. 
The  nurse  hurried  out.  Betsy  had  fainted. 

With  a  painful  effort  Pickering  raised  himself  on  one 
arm.  His  forced  gayety  gave  place  to  loud-voiced 
violence. 

"  Confound  you  all !  "  he  roared.  "  Why  come  here 
to  frighten  the  poor  girl's  life  out  of  her?  " 

He  cursed  both  the  magistrate  and  Superintendent 
Jonas  by  name;  were  he  able  to  rise  he  would  break  their 
necks  down  the  stairs.  The  policeman  crept  out  on 
tiptoe;  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  sat  down.  Pickering 
stormed  away  until  the  nurse  returned. 

"  Miss  Thwaites  is  better,"  she  said.  "  She  was  over- 
come by  the  long  strain,  but  she  is  with  her  sister  now, 
and  quite  recovered." 

Betsy  was  crying  her  heart  out  in  Kitty's  arms: 
fortunately,  the  sounds  of  her  grief  were  shut  out  from 


A  Dying  Deposition  175 

their  ears.  Jonas  came  back  and  closed  the  door.  The 
doomed  man  sank  to  the  pillow  and  growled  sullenly : 

"  Now,  get  on  with  your  business,  and  be  quick  over 
it.  I'll  not  have  Betsy  worried  again  while  I  have  breath 
left  to  protest." 

"  I  am,  indeed,  very  sorry  to  disturb  you,  George," 
said  the  magistrate  quietly.  "  It  is  a  thankless  office  for 
an  old  friend.  Try  and  calm  yourself.  I  do  not  ask 
your  forbearance  toward  myself  and  Mr.  Jonas,  but 
there  are  tremendous  issues  at  stake.  For  your  own 
sake  you  must  help  us  to  face  this  ordeal." 

"  Oh,  go  ahead,  squire.  My  bark  is  worse  than  my 
bite — not  that  I  have  much  of  either  in  me  now.  If  I 
spoke  roughly,  forgive  me.  I  couldn't  bear  to  hear 
yon  lass  suffering." 

Thinking  it  best  to  avoid  further  delay,  Mr.  Beckett- 
Smythe  nodded  to  the  police  officer,  who  drew  forward 
a  small  table,  which,  with  writing  materials,  he  placed 
before  the  magistrate. 

A  foolscap  sheet  bore  already  some  written  words. 
The  magistrate  bent  over  it,  and  said,  in  a  voice  shaken 
with  emotion: 

"  Listen,  George.  I  have  written  here :  *  I,  George 
Pickering,  being  of  sound  mind,  but  believing  myself 
to  be  in  danger  of  death,  solemnly  take  oath  and  depose 
as  follows  ' :  Now,  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  in  your  own 
words,  what  took  place  last  Monday  night.  You  are 
going  to  the  awful  presence  of  your  Creator.  You  must 
tell  the  truth,  fully  and  fearlessly,  not  striving  to  deter- 
mine the  course  of  justice  by  your  own  judgment,  but 
leaving  matters  wholly  in  the  hands  of  God.  You  are 
conscious  of  what  you  are  doing,  fully  sensible  that  you 


176  The  Revellers 

will  soon  be  called  on  to  meet  One  who  knoweth  all 
things.  I  hope,  I  venture  to  pray,  that  you  will  give 
testimony  in  all  sincerity  and  righteousness.  ...  I 
am  ready." 

Pickering  heard  this  solemn  injunction  with  due  grav- 
ity. His  features  were  composed,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
distant  landscape  through  the  open  window.  No  dis- 
turbing noise  reached  him  save  the  lowing  of  cattle  and 
the  far-off  rattle  of  a  reaping  machine,  for  the  police 
had  ordered  the  removal  of  the  shooting  gallery  and 
roundabout  to  the  other  end  of  the  green. 

He  remained  silent  so  long  that  the  two  men  glanced 
at  him  anxiously,  but  were  reassured  by  the  belief  that 
he  was  only  collecting  his  thoughts.  Indeed,  it  was  not 
so.  He  was  striving  to  bridge  that  dark  chasm  on  whose 
perilous  verge  he  tottered — striving  to  frame  an  excuse 
that  would  not  be  uttered  by  his  mortal  lips. 

At  last  he  spoke. 

"  On  Monday  night,  about  five  minutes  past  ten,  I 
met  Kitty  Thwaites,  by  appointment,  at  the  wicket  gate 
which  opens  into  the  garden  from  the  bowling  green  of 
the  *  Black  Lion  Hotel,'  Elmsdale.  We  walked  down 
the  garden  together.  We  were  talking  and  laughing 
about  the  antics  of  a  groom  in  this  hotel,  a  fellow  named 
Fred — I  do  not  know  his  surname — who  was  jealous  of 
me  because  I  was  in  the  habit  of  chaffing  Kitty  and 
placing  my  arm  around  her  waist  if  I  encountered  her 
on  the  stairs.  This  man  Fred,  I  believe,  endeavored  to 
pay  attentions  to  Kitty,  which  she  always  refused  to 
encourage.  Kitty  and  I  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the 
garden  beneath  a  pear  tree  which  stands  in  the  boundary 
fence  of  the  paddock. 


A  Dying  Deposition  177 

"  I  had  my  arm  around  her  neck,  but  was  only  play- 
ing the  fool,  which  Kitty  knew  as  well  as  I.  There  was 
a  bright  moon,  and,  although  almost  invisible  ourselves 
in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge  and  tree,  we  could  see  clearly 
into  both  paddock  and  garden.  My  back  was  toward 
the  hotel.  Suddenly,  we  heard  someone  running  down 
the  gravel  path.  I  turned  and  saw  that  it  was  Betsy 
Thwaites,  Kitty's  sister,  a  girl  whom  I  believed  to  be 
then  in  a  situation  at  Hereford.  I  had  promised  to 
marry  Betsy,  and  was  naturally  vexed  at  being  caught 
in  an  apparently  compromising  attitude  with  her  sister. 
Betsy  had  a  knife  in  her  hand.  I  could  see  it  glittering 
in  the  moonlight." 

He  paused.  He  was  corpse-like  in  color.  The  red 
spots  on  his  face  were  darker  than  before  by  contrast 
with  the  wan  cheeks.  He  motioned  to  the  nurse,  who 
gave  him  a  glass  of  barley  water.  He  emptied  it  at  a 
gulp.  Catching  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe's  mournful  glance, 
he  smiled  with  ghastly  pleasantry. 

"It  sounds  like  a  coroner's  inquest,  doesn't  it?"  he 
said. 

Then,  while  his  eyes  roved  incessantly  from  the  face 
of  the  policeman  to  that  of  the  magistrate,  he  continued : 

"  I  imagined  that  Betsy  meant  to  do  her  sister  some 
harm,  so  sprang  forward  to  meet  her.  Then  I  saw  that 
she  was  minded  to  attack  me,  for  she  screamed  out: 
*  You  have  ruined  my  life.  I'll  take  care  you  do  not 
ruin  Kitty's.' " 

The  words,  of  course,  were  spoken  very  slowly.  They 
alternated  with  the  steady  scratching  of  the  pen.  Others 
in  the  room  were  pallid  now.  Even  the  rigid  nurse 
yielded  to  the  excitement  of  the  moment.  Her  linen 


178  The  Revellers 

bands  fluttered  and  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  the 
restraint  she  imposed  on  her  breathing. 

George  Pickering  suddenly  became  the  most  composed 
person  present.  His  hearers  were  face  to  face  with  a 
tragedy.  After  all,  did  he  mean  to  tell  the  truth?  Ah, 
it  was  well  that  his  affianced  wife  was  weeping  in  an 
adjoining  room,  that  her  soul  was  not  pierced  by  the 
calm  recital  which  would  condemn  her  to  prison,  per- 
chance to  the  scaffold. 

"  Her  cry  warned  me,"  he  went  on.  "  I  knew  she 
could  not  hurt  me.  I  was  a  strong  and  active  man,  she 
a  weak,  excited  woman.  She  was  very  near,  advancing 
down  the  path  which  runs  close  to  the  dividing  hedge 
of  the  garden  and  the  stackyard.  To  draw  her  away 
from  Kitty,  I  ran  toward  this  hedge  and  jumped  over. 
It  was  dark  there.  I  missed  my  footing  and  stumbled. 
I  felt  something  run  into  my  left  breast.  It  was  the 
prong  of  a  pitchfork." 

The  pen  ceased.  A  low  gasp  of  relief  came  from  the 
nurse,  for  she  was  a  woman.  The  superintendent  looked 
gravely  at  the  floor.  But  the  magistrate  faltered: 

"  George — remember — you  are  a  dying  man !  " 

Pickering  again  lifted  his  body.  His  face  was  con- 
vulsed with  a  spasm  of  pain,  but  the  strong  voice  cried 
fearlessly : 

"  Write  what  I  have  said.  I'll  swear  it  with  my  last 
breath.  I'll  tell  the  same  story  to  either  God  or 
devil.  Write,  I  say,  or  shall  I  finish  it  with  my  own 
hand?" 

They  thought  that  by  some  superhuman  effort  he 
would  rise  forthwith  to  reach  the  table.  The  nurse,  the 
policeman,  leaped  to  restrain  him. 


A  Dying  Deposition  179 

Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  was  greatly  agitated. 

"  If  I  cannot  persuade  you — "  he  began. 

"Persuade  me  to  do  what?  To  bolster  up  a  lying 
charge  against  the  woman  I  am  going  to  marry?  By 
the  Lord,  do  you  think  I'm  mad  ?  " 

They  released  him.  The  set  intensity  of  his  face  was 
terrible.  It  is  hard  to  say  what  awful  power  could  have 
changed  George  Pickering's  purpose  in  that  supreme 
moment.  Yet  he  clenched  his  hands  in  the  bedclothes, 
as  if  he  would  choke  some  mocking  fiend  that  grinned 
at  him,  and  his  voice  was  hoarse  as  he  murmured : 

"  Oh,  man,  if  you  have  a  heart,  end  your  inquisition, 
or  I'll  die  too  soon !  " 

Again  the  pen  resumed  its  monotonous  scrape.  It 
paused  at  last.  The  fateful  words  were  on  record. 

"  And  then  what  happened  ?  " 

The  magistrate's  question  was  judicially  cold.  He 
held  strong  convictions  regarding  the  deeper  mysteries 
of  life ;  his  faculties  were  benumbed  by  this  utter  defiance 
of  all  that  he  believed  most  firmly. 

"  I  said  something,  swore  very  likely,  and  staggered 
into  the  moonlight,  at  the  same  time  tearing  the  fork 
from  my  breast.  Betsy  saw  what  I  was  doing,  and 
screamed.  I  managed  to  get  over  the  hedge  again,  and 
she  ran  away  in  mortal  fright,  for  I  had  pulled  open 
my  waistcoat,  and  she  could  see  the  blood  on  my  shirt. 
She  fell  as  she  ran,  and  cut  herself  with  the  knife.  By 
that  time  Kitty  had  reached  the  hotel,  screaming  wildly 
that  Betsy  was  trying  to  murder  me.  That  is  all. 
Betsy  never  touched  me.  The  wound  I  am  suffering 
from  was  inflicted  by  myself,  accidentally.  It  was  not 
caused  by  the  knife,  as  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  I  am 


180  The  Revellers 

dying  of  blood  poisoning,  while  Betsy's  cuts  are  healing 
and  have  left  her  unharmed  otherwise." 

His  hearers  were  greatly  perturbed,  but  they  knew 
that  further  protest  would  be  unavailing.  And  there 
was  an  even  greater  shock  in  store. 

Pickering  turned  in  the  bed  and  poised  his  pain- 
racked  frame  so  as  to  reach  the  manuscript  placed 
before  him  for  signature.  With  unwavering  hand  he 
added  the  words: 

"So  help  me  God!" 

Then  he  wrote  his  name. 

"  Now,  sign  that,  all  of  you,  as  witnesses,"  he  com- 
manded, and  they  did  not  gainsay  him.  It  was  useless. 
Why  prolong  his  torture  and  their  own? 

Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  handed  the  sheets  of  paper  to 
Jonas.  He  seemed  inclined  to  leave  the  room  without 
another  spoken  word,  but  humane  impulse  was  stronger 
than  dogma ;  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-by,  George,"  he  said  brokenly.  "  '  Judge  not,' 
it  is  written.  Let  my  farewell  be  a  prayer  that  you 
may  die  peacefully  and  painlessly,  if,  indeed,  God  in  His 
mercy  does  not  grant  your  recovery." 

"  Good-by,  squire.  You've  got  two  sons.  Find  'em 
plenty  of  work;  they'll  have  less  time  for  mischief. 
Damn  it  all,  hark  to  that  reaper!  It'll  soon  be  time  to 
rouse  the  cubs.  I'll  miss  the  next  hunt  breakfast,  eh? 
Well,  good  luck  to  you  all!  I've  had  my  last  gallop. 
Good-by,  Jonas !  Do  you  remember  the  fight  we  had 
that  morning  with  the  poachers  ?  Look  here !  When 
you  meet  Rabbit  Jack,  tell  him  to  go  to  Stockwell  for  a 
sovereign  and  swim  in  beer  for  a  week.  Nurse,  where's 
Betsy?  I  want  her  before  it  is  dark." 


A  Dying  Deposition  181 

And  in  a  few  minutes  Betsy,  the  forlorn,  was  bending 
over  him  and  whispering: 

"  I'll  do  it  for  your  sake,  George !  But,  oh,  it  will 
be  hard  to  face  everybody  with  a  lie  in  my  mouth.  The 
hand  that  struck  you  should  wither.  Indeed,  indeed,  I 
shall  suffer  worse  than  death.  If  the  Lord  took  pity 
on  me,  He  would  let  me  be  the  first  to  go." 

He  stroked  her  hair  gently,  and  there  were  tears  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Never  cry  about  spilt  milk,  dearie.  At  best,  or 
worst,  the  whole  thing  was  an  accident.  Come,  now,  no 
more  weeping.  Sit  down  there  and  write  what  I  tell 
you.  I  can  remember  every  word,  and  Kitty  and  you 
must  just  fit  in  your  stories  to  suit  mine.  Stockwell 
will  defend  you.  He's  a  smart  chap,  and  you  need  have 
no  fear.  Bless  your  heart,  you'll  be  twice  married  be- 
fore you  know  where  you  are !  " 

She  obeyed  him.  With  careful  accuracy  he  repeated 
the  deposition.  He  rehearsed  the  evidence  she  would 
give.  When  the  nurse  came  in,  he  bade  her  angrily  to 
leave  them  alone,  but  recalled  her  in  the  next  breath. 
He  wanted  Kitty.  She,  too,  must  be  coached.  At  his 
command  she  had  placed  the  fork  where  it  was  found. 
But  she  must  learn  her  story  with  parrot-like  accuracy. 
There  must  be  no  contradiction  in  the  sister's  evi- 
dence. 

Martin  was  eating  his  supper  when  Mrs.  Bolland, 
bustling  about  the  kitchen,  made  a  discovery. 

"  I  must  be  fair  wool-gatherin',"  she  said  crossly. 
"  Here's  a  little  pile  o'  handkerchiefs  browt  by  Dr. 
MacGregor,  an'  I  clean  forgot  all  about  'em.  Martin, 
it's  none  ower  leat,  an'  ye  can  bide  i'  bed  i'  t'  mornin'. 


182  The  Revellers 

Just  run  along  te  t'  vicarage  wi'  these,  there's  a  good 
lad.     They'll  mebbe  be  wantin'  'em." 

He  hailed  the  errand  not  the  less  joyfully  that  it  led 
him  through  the  fair.  But  he  did  not  loiter.  Perhaps 
he  gazed  with  longing  eyes  at  its  vanishing  glories,  for 
some  of  the  showmen  were  packing  up  in  disgust,  but 
he  reached  the  vicarage  quickly.  It  lay  nearer  the 
farm  than  The  Elms,  and,  like  that  pretentious  mansion, 
was  shrouded  from  the  highroad  by  leafy  trees  and 
clusters  of  laurels. 

A  broad  drive  led  to  the  front  door.  The  night  was 
drawing  in  rapidly,  and  the  moon  would  not  rise  until 
eleven  o'clock.  In  the  curving  avenue  it  was  pitch- 
dark,  but  a  cheerful  light  shone  from  the  drawing-room, 
and  through  an  open  French  window  he  could  see  Elsie 
bending  over  a  book. 

She  was  not  deeply  interested,  judging  by  the  listless 
manner  in  which  she  turned  the  leaves.  She  was  leaning 
with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  resting  one  knee  on  a  chair, 
and  the  attitude  revealed  a  foot  and  ankle  quite  as  grace- 
fully proportioned  as  Angele's  elegant  limbs,  though 
Elsie  was  more  robust. 

Hearing  the  boy's  firm  tread  on  the  graveled  ap- 
proach, she  straightened  herself  and  ran  to  the  window. 

"  Who  is  there?  "  she  said.  Martin  stepped  into  the 
light. 

"  Oh,  it's  you !  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Herbert.     Mother  sent  me  with  these." 

He  held  out  the  parcel  of  linen. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  extending  a  hesitating 
hand. 

"  It  is  perfectly  harmless,  if  you  stroke  it  gently." 


A  Dying  Deposition  183 

She  could  see  the  mischief  dancing  in  his  eyes,  and 
grabbed  the  package.  Then  she  laughed. 

"  Our  handkerchiefs !  It  was  very  kind  of  Mrs. 
Bolland " 

"  I  think  Dr.  MacGregor  had  them  washed." 

This  puzzled  her,  but  a  more  personal  topic  was 
present  in  her  mind. 

"  I  saw  you  a  little  while  ago,"  she  said.  "  You  were 
engaged,  or  I  would  have  asked  you  if  you  were  recov- 
ering all  right.  Your  hands  and  arms  are  yet  bound  up, 
I  see.  Do  they  hurt  you  much?  " 

"No.    Not  a  bit." 

He  felt  absurdly  tongue-tied,  but  bravely  continued : 

"  I  was  told  to  take  Miss  Saumarez  home.  That  is 
how  you  happened  to  meet  us  together." 

"  Indeed,"  she  said,  drawing  back  a  little.  Her  tone 
conveyed  that  any  explanation  of  Miss  Saumarez's 
companionship  was  unnecessary.  No  other  attitude 
could  have  set  Martin's  wits  at  work  more  effectually. 
He,  too,  retreated  a  pace. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  if  I  disturbed  you,"  he  said.  "  I 
was  going  to  ring  for  one  of  the  servants." 

She  tittered. 

"  Then  I  am  glad  you  didn't.  They  are  both  out, 
and  auntie  would  have  wondered  who  our  late  visitor 
was.  She  has  just  gone  to  bed." 

"  But  isn't  your — isn't  Mr.  Herbert  at  home?  " 

"  No ;  he  is  at  the  bazaar.  He  asked  me  to  sit  up 
until  one  of  the  maids  returns." 

Again  she  approached  the  window.  One  foot  rested 
on  the  threshold. 

"  I've  been  reading  '  Rokeby,'  "  ventured  Martin. 


184.  The  Revellers 

«Do  you  like  it?" 

"  It  must  be  very  interesting  when  you  know  the 
place.  Just  imagine  how  nice  it  would  be  if  Sir  Walter 
had  seen  Elmsdale  and  written  about  the  moor,  and  the 
river,  and  the  ghylls." 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  have  found  a  wildcat  in  Thor 

ghyll?" 

"  I  hope  not.  It  might  have  spoiled  the  verse ;  and 
Thor  ghyll  is  beautiful." 

"  I'll  never  forget  that  cat.  I  can  see  it  yet.  How 
its  eyes  blazed  when  it  sprang  at  me !  Oh,  I  don't  know 
how  you  dared  seize  it  in  your  hands." 

She  was  outside  the  window  now,  standing  on  a  strip 
of  turf  that  ran  between  house  and  drive. 

"  I  didn't  give  a  second  thought  to  it,"  said  Martin 
in  his  offhand  way. 

"  I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  saving  me,"  she 
murmured. 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  cried.  "  To  make  quite 
sure  you  won't  forget,  I'll  try  and  persuade  mother  to 
have  the  skin  made  into  a  muff  for  you.  One  of  the 
men  is  curing  it,  with  spirits  of  ammonia  and  saltpeter." 

"  Do  you  think  I  may  need  to  have  my  memory 
jogged?" 

"  People  forget  things,"  he  said  airily.  "  Besides, 
I'm  going  away  to  school.  When  I  come  back  you'll 
be  a  grown-up  young  lady." 

"  I'm  nearly  as  tall  as  you." 

"  Indeed  you  are  not." 

"  Well,  I'm  much  taller  than  Angele  Saumarez,  at 
any  rate." 

"  There's  no  comparison  between  you  in  any  respect." 


A  Dying  Deposition  185 

And  this  young  spark  three  short  hours  ago,  behind 
the  woodpile,  had  gazed  into  Angele's  eyes ! 

"  Do  you  remember — we  were  talking  about  her  when 
that  creature  flew  at  me?  " 

He  laughed.  It  was  odd  how  Angele's  name  kept 
cropping  up.  The  church  clock  struck  nine.  They 
listened  to  the  chimes.  Neither  spoke  until  the  tremu- 
lous booming  of  the  bell  ceased. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  going,"  said  Martin,  without 
budging  an  inch. 

"  Did  you — did  you — find  any  difficulty — in  opening 
the  gate  ?  It  is  rather  stiff.  And  your  poor  hands  must 
be  so  sore." 

From  excessive  politeness,  or  shyness,  Elsie's  tongue 
tripped  somewhat. 

"  It  was  a  bit  stiff,"  he  admitted.  "  I  had  to  reach 
up,  you  know." 

"  Then  I  think  I  ought  to  come  and  open  it  for 
you." 

"  But  you  will  be  afraid  to  return  alone." 

"Afraid!     Of  what?" 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  he  said,  "  but  I  thought  girls 
were  always  scared  in  the  dark." 

"  Then  I  am  an  exception." 

She  cast  a  backward  glance  into  the  room. 

"  The  lamp  is  quite  safe.  It  will  not  take  me  a 
minute." 

They  walked  together  down  the  short  avenue.  The 
gate  was  standing  open. 

"  Really,"  laughed  Martin,  "  I  had  quite  forgotten." 

"  So  boys  have  weak  memories,  too?  " 

"  Of  gates,  perhaps." 


186  The  Revellers 

"Well,  now,  I  must  be  off.  Good-night,  and  thank 
you  so  much." 

She  held  out  her  hand.    He  took  it  in  both  of  his. 

"  I  do  hope  Mr.  Herbert  will  ask  me  to  another 
picnic,"  he  said. 

A  boy  on  a  bicycle  rode  past  slowly.  Instinctively, 
they  shrank  into  the  shadow  of  a  tree. 

"Wasn't  that  Frank  Beckett-Smythe  ?  "  whispered 
Elsie,  forgetting  to  withdraw  her  imprisoned  hand,  and 
turning  a  startled  face  to  Martin. 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  can  he  be  going  at  this  time  ?  " 

Martin  guessed  accurately,  but  sheer  chivalry  pre- 
vented him  from  saying  more  than : 

"  To  the  fair,  I  suppose." 

"At  this  hour;  after  nine  o'clock?" 

"  S-s-h.     He's  coming  back." 

She  drew  closer.  There  was  an  air  of  mystery  in  this 
nocturnal  bicycle  ride  that  induced  bewilderment.  Mar- 
tin's right  hand  still  inclosed  the  girl's.  What  more 
natural  than  that  his  left  arm  should  go  around  her 
waist,  merely  to  emphasize  the  need  for  caution,  con- 
cealment, secrecy?  Most  certainly  his  knowledge  of 
womankind  was  striding  onward  in  seven-leagued  boots. 

The  trot  of  a  horse  sounded  sharply  on  the  hard  road. 
It  was  being  ridden  by  someone  in  a  hurry.  The  young 
scion  of  the  Hall,  who  appeared  to  be  killing  time, 
inclined  his  machine  to  the  opposite  hedge. 

But  the  rider  pulled  up  with  the  skill  of  a  practiced 
horseman.  Even  in  the  dim  light  the  boy  and  girl 
recognized  one  of  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe's  grooms. 

"  Is  that  you,  Master  Frank?  "  they  heard  him  say. 


A  Dying  Deposition  187 

"  Hello,  Williams !     What's  up?  " 

"  What's  up,  indeed !  T'  Squire  has  missed  ye.  A 
bonny  row  there'll  be.  Ye  mun  skip  back  lively,  let  me 
tell  ye." 

"Oh,  the  deuce!" 

"  Better  lose  nae  mair  time,  Master  Frank.  I'll  say 
I  found  ye  yon  side  o'  T'  Elms." 

"  What  has  The  Elms  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

The  man  grinned. 

"  Noo,  Master  Frank,  just  mount  an'  be  off  in  front. 
T'  Squire  thinks  ye're  efther  that  black-eyed  lass  o'  Mrs. 
Saumarez's.  Don't  try  an'  humbug  him.  He  telt  me  te 
lay  my  huntin'-crop  across  yer  shoulders,  but  that's 
none  o'  my  business.  Off  ye  go !  " 

The  heir,  sulky  and  in  deep  tribulation,  obeyed.  They 
heard  the  horse's  hoofbeats  dying  away  rapidly. 

Elsie,  an  exceedingly  nice-mannered  girl,  was  essen- 
tially feminine.  The  episode  thrilled  her,  and  pleased 
her,  too,  in  some  indefinable  way,  for  her  companion 
was  holding  her  tightly. 

"  Just  fancy  that !  "  she  whispered. 

"  Oh,  he  will  only  get  a  hiding." 

"  But,  surely,  he  could  not  expect  to  meet  Angele  ?  " 

"  It  looks  like  it.  But  why  '  should  we  trouble 
about  it?" 

"  I  think  it  is  horrid.  But  I  must  be  going.  Good- 
night— Martin." 

He  felt  a  gentle  effort  to  loosen  his  clasp. 

"  Good-night,  Elsie." 

Their  faces  were  very  close.  Assuredly,  the  boy  must 
have  been  a  trifle  light-headed  that  day,  for  he  bent  and 
kissed  her. 


188  The  Revellers 

She  tore  herself  from  the  encircling  arm.  Her  cheeks 
were  burning.  At  a  little  distance — a  few  feet — she 
halted. 

"  How  dare  you?  "  she  cried. 

He  came  to  her  with  hands  extended. 

"  Forgive  me,  Elsie ;  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  You  must  never,  never  do  such  a  thing  again." 

He  had  nothing  to  say. 

"  Promise !  "  she  cried,  but  her  voice  was  less  emphatic 
than  she  imagined. 

"  I  won't,"  he  said,  and  caught  her  arm. 

"  You — won't !    How  can  you  say  such  a  thing?  " 

"  Because  I  like  you.  I  have  known  you  for  years, 
though  we  never  spoke  to  each  other  until  yesterday." 

"  Oh,  dear !  This  is  terrible !  You  frightened  me  so ! 
I  hope  I  didn't  hurt  your  poor  arms  ?  " 

"  The  pain  was  awful,"  he  laughed. 

The  girl's  heart  was  beating  so  frantically  that  she 
could  almost  hear  its  pulsations.  The  white  bandages 
on  Martin's  wrists  and  hands  aroused  a  tumult  of  emo- 
tion. The  scene  in  the  ghyll  flashed  before  her  eyes ;  she 
saw  again  the  wild  struggles  of  the  snarling,  tearing, 
biting  animal,  the  boy's  cool  daring  and  endurance  until 
he  crushed  the  raging  thing's  life  out  of  it  and  flung  it 
away  contemptuously. 

An  impulse  came  to  her,  and  it  was  not  to  be  repelled. 
She  placed  both  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  kissed  him, 
quite  fearlessly,  on  the  lips. 

"  I  think  I  owed  you  that,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sob, 
and  then  ran  away  in  good  earnest,  never  turning  her 
head  until  she  was  safe  within  the  drawing-room. 

Martin,  his  brain  in  a  whirl  and  his  blood  on  fire, 


A  Dying  Deposition  189 

closed  the  gate  for  himself.  When  the  vicar  came, 
half  an  hour  later,  his  daughter  was  busy  over  the  same 
book. 

"What,  Elsie!  None  of  the  maids  home  yet?"  he 
cried. 

"  No,  father,  dear.  But  Martin  Bolland  brought 
these." 

"  Oh,  our  handkerchiefs.    What  did  he  say?  " 

"  Nothing — of  any  importance.  I  understood  that 
Dr.  MacGregor  caused  the  linen  to  be  washed,  but  for- 
got to  ask  him  why." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Practically  all,  except  that  his  arms  and  hands  are 
all  bound  up,  so  I  went  with  him  as  far  as  the  gate.  It 
is  stiff,  you  know.  And — yes — he  has  been  reading 
'Rokeby.'  He  likes  it." 

The  vicar  filled  his  pipe.    He  had  had  a  trying  day. 

"  Martin  is  a  fine  lad,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  John  Bol- 
land will  see  fit  to  educate  him.  Such  a  youngster  should 
not  be  allowed  to  vegetate  in  a  village  like  this." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Elsie,  "  that  reminds  me.  He  told  me 
he  was  going  away  to  school." 

"  Capital !  "  agreed  the  vicar.  "  Out  of  evil  comes 
good.  It  required  an  earthquake  to  move  a  man  like 
Bolland!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  STORM 

ON  the  morrow  rain  fell.  At  first  the  village  regarded 
the  break  in  the  weather  as  a  thunderstorm,  and  har- 
vesters looked  to  an  early  resumption  of  work.  "  A 
sup  o'  wet'll  do  nowt  any  harm,"  they  said.  But  a 
steadily  declining  "  glass  "  and  a  continuous  downpour 
that  lost  nothing  in  volume  as  the  day  wore  caused  in- 
creasing headshakes,  anxious  frowns,  revilings  not  a 
few  of  the  fickle  elements. 

The  moorland  becks  became  raging  torrents.  The 
gorged  river  rose  until  all  the  low-lying  land  was  flooded, 
hundreds  of  pounds'  worth  of  corn  in  stook  swept  away, 
and  all  standing  crops  were  damaged  to  an  enormous 
extent.  Cattle,  sheep,  poultry,  even  a  horse  or  two, 
were  caught  by  the  rushing  waters  and  drowned.  A 
bridge  became  blocked  by  floating  debris  and  crumbled 
before  the  flood.  Three  men  were  standing  on  the 
structure,  idly  watching  the  articles  whirling  past  in 
the  eddies;  one,  given  a  second's  firm  footing,  jumped 
for  dear  life  and  saved  himself ;  the  bodies  of  the  others 
were  found,  many  days  afterwards,  jammed  against 
stakes  placed  in  the  stream  a  mile  lower  down  to  prevent 
fish  poachers  from  netting  an  open  reach. 

This  deluge,  if  indeed  aught  else  were  needed, 
wrecked  the  Feast.  Every  booth  was  dismantled,  each 
wagon  and  caravan  packed.  The  van  dwellers  only 

190 


The  Storm  191 

ceased  their  labors  when  all  was  in  readiness  for 
a  move  to  the  next  fair  ground;  the  Elmsdale  week, 
usually  a  bright  spot  in  their  migratory  calendar,  was 
marked  this  year  with  absolute  loss.  At  the  best, 
and  in  few  instances,  it  yielded  a  bare  payment  of 
expenses. 

Farmers,  of  course,  toiled  early  and  late  to  avert 
further  disaster.  Stock  were  driven  from  pastures 
where  danger  threatened;  cut  corn  was  rescued  in  the 
hope  that  the  next  day's  sun  might  dry  it;  choked 
ditches  were  raked  with  long  hoes  to  permit  the  water 
to  flow  off. 

At  last,  when  night  fell,  and  the  rain  diminished  to  a 
thin  drizzle,  though  the  barometer  gave  no  promise  of 
improvement,  men  gathered  in  the  village  street  and 
began  comparing  notes.  Everyone  had  suffered  in  some 
degree ;  even  the  shopkeepers  and  private  residents  com- 
plained of  ruined  goods,  gardens  rooted  up,  houses 
invaded  by  the  all-pervading  floods. 

But  the  farmers  endured  the  greatest  damage.  Some 
had  lost  their  half-year's  rent,  many  would  be  faced 
with  privation  and  bankruptcy.  Thrice  fortunate  now 
were  the  men  with  capital — those  who  could  look  for- 
ward with  equanimity  to  another  season  when  the  wan- 
ton havoc  inflicted  by  this  wild  raging  of  the  waters 
should  be  recouped. 

John  Bolland,  protected  by  an  oilskin  coat,  crossed 
the  road  between  the  stockyard  and  the  White  House 
about  eight  o'clock. 

"  Eh,  Mr.  Bollan',  but  this  is  a  sad  day's  wark,"  said 
a  friend  who  encountered  him. 

"Ah,  it's  bad,  very  bad,  an'  likely  te  be  worse," 


192  The  Revellers 

replied  John,  lifting  his  bent  head  and  casting  a  weather- 
wise  glance  over  the  northerly  moor. 

"I've  lost  t'  best  part  o'  six  acres  o'  wuts,"  (oats) 
growled  his  neighbor.  "  It's  hard  to  know  what  spite 
there  was  in  t'  clouds  te  burst  i'  that  way." 

"  Times  an'  seasons  aren't  i'  man's  hands,"  was  the 
quiet  answer.  "  There'd  be  ill  deed  if  sunshine  an' 
storm  were  settled  by  voates,  like  a  county-council 
election." 

"  Mebbe,  and  mebbe  nut,"  cried  the  other  testily. 
"  'Tis  easy  to  leave  ivvrything  ';e  Providence  when  yer 
money's  mostly  i'  stock.  Mine  happens  te  be  i'  crops." 

"  An'  if  mine  were  i'  crops,  Mr.  Pattison,  I  sud  still 
thry  te  desarve  well  o'  Providence." 

This  shrewd  thrust  evoked  no  wrath  from  Pattison, 
who  was  not  a  chapel-goer. 

"  Gosh !  "  he  laughed,  "  some  folks  are  lucky.  They 
pile  up  riches  both  i'  this  wulld  an'  t'  wulld  te  come. 
Hooivver,  we  won't  argy.  Hev  ye  heerd  t'  news  fra'  te 
t»  <  Black  Lion'?" 

"Aboot  poor  George  Pickerin'?  Noa.  I've  bin 
ower  thrang  i'  t'  cow-byre." 

"  He's  married,  an'  med  his  will.  Betsy  is  Mrs.  Pick- 
erin' noo.  But  she'll  be  a  widdy  afore  t'  mornin'." 

"Is  he  as  bad  as  all  that?" 

"  Sinkin'  fast,  they  tell  me.  He  kep'  up,  like  the 
game  'un  he  allus  was,  until  Mr.  Croft  left  him  alone 
wi'  his  wife.  Then  he  fell  away  te  nowt.  He's  ravin', 
I  hear." 

"  Croft !    I  thowt  Stockwell  looked  efther  his  affairs." 

"Right  enough!  But  Stockwell's  ya  (one)  trustee, 
Mr.  Herbert's  t'other.  So  Croft  had  te  act." 


The  Storm  193 

"  Well,  I'm  rale  sorry  for  t'  poor  chap.  He's  coom 
tiv  a  bad  end." 

"  Ye'll  be  t'  foreman  o'  t'  jury,  most  like?  " 

"  Noa.  I'll  be  spared  that  job.  Martin  is  a  witness, 
more's  t'  pity.  Good-night,  Mr.  Pattison.  It'll  hu't 
none  if  y'  are  minded  te  offer  up  a  prayer  for  betther 
weather." 

But  the  prayers  of  many  just  men  did  not  avail  to 
save  Elmsdale  that  night.  After  a  brief  respite,  the 
storm  came  on  again  with  gusty  malevolence.  Black 
despair  sat  by  many  a  fireside,  and  in  no  place  was  its 
grim  visage  seen  more  plainly  than  in  the  bedroom  where 
George  Pickering  died. 

Dr.  MacGregor  watched  the  fitful  flickering  of  the 
strong  man's  life,  until,  at  last,  he  led  the  afflicted  wife 
from  the  room  and  consigned  her  to  the  care  of  her 
weeping  sister  and  the  hardly  less  sorrowful  landlady. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  were  waiting  P.  C.  Benson 
and  the  reporter  of  the  Messenger. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  said  the  doctor.  "  He  died  at  a 
quarter  past  ten." 

"  The  same  hour  that  he  was — wounded,"  commented 
the  reporter.  "  What  was  the  precise  cause  of  death?  " 

"  Failure  of  the  heart's  action.  It  was  a  merciful 
release.  Otherwise,  he  might  have  survived  for  days 
and  suffered  greatly." 

The  policeman  adjusted  his  cape  and  lowered  his 
chin-strap. 

"  I  mun  start  for  Nottonby,"  he  said.  "  T'  inquest'll 
likely  be  oppenned  o'  Satherday  at  two  o'clock,  doctor." 

"  Yes.  By  the  way,  Benson,  you  can  tell  Mr.  Jonas 
that  the  county  analyst  and  I  are  ready  with  our  evi- 


194  The  Revellers 

deuce.  There  is  no  need  for  an  adjournment,  unless  the 
police  require  it." 

The  constable  saluted  and  set  off  on  a  lonely  tramp 
through  the  rain.  He  crossed  the  footbridge  over  the 
beck — the  water  was  nearly  level  with  the  stout 
planks. 

"  I  haven't  seen  a  wilder  night  for  monny  a  year,"  he 
muttered.  "  There'll  be  a  nice  how-d'ye-do  if  t'  brig  is 
gone  afore  daylight." 

He  trudged  the  four  miles  to  Nottonby.  Nearing 
the  outskirts  of  the  small  market  town,  he  was  startled 
by  finding  the  body  of  a  man  lying  face  down  in  the 
roadway.  The  pelting  gale  had  extinguished  his  lamp. 
He  managed  to  turn  the  prostrate  form  and  raise  the 
man's  head.  Then,  after  several  failures,  he  induced  a 
match  to  flare  for  a  second.  One  glance  sufficed. 

"  Rabbit  Jack !  "  he  growled.  "  And  blind  as  a  bat ! 
Get  up,  ye  drunken  swine.  'Twould  be  sarvin'  ye  right 
te  lave  ye  i'  the  road  until  ye  were  runned  over  or  caught 
yer  death  o'  cold." 

From  the  manner  of  P.  C.  Benson's  language  it  may 
be  inferred  that  his  actions  were  not  characterized  by 
extreme  gentleness.  He  managed  to  shake  the  poacher 
into  semi-consciousness.  Rabbit  Jack,  wobbling  on  his 
feet,  lurched  against  the  policeman. 

"  Hello,  ole  fell',  coom  along  wi'  me,"  he  mumbled 
amiably.  "  Nivver  mind  t'  brass.  I've  got  plenty. 
Good  soart,  George  Pickerin'.  Gimme  me  a  sov',  'e  did. 
Fo-or,  'e's  a  jolly  good  feller " 

A  further  shaking  was  disastrous.  He  collapsed 
again.  The  perplexed  policeman  noted  a  haymew  be- 
hind a  neighboring  gate.  He  dragged  the  nondescript 


The  Storm  195 

thither  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  threw  him  on  the 
lee  side  of  the  shelter. 

"  He'll  be  sober  by  mornin',"  he  thought.  "  I  hev 
overmuch  thrubble  aboot  te  tew  mysen  wi'  this  varmint." 

And  so  ended  the  first  of  the  dead  man's  bequests. 

The  gathering  of  a  jury  in  a  country  village  for  an 
important  inquest  like  that  occasioned  by  George  Pick- 
ering's death  is  a  solemn  function.  Care  is  exercised  in 
empaneling  men  of  repute,  and,  in  the  present  instance, 
several  prominent  farmers  were  debarred  from  service 
because  their  children  would  be  called  as  witnesses. 

The  inquest  was  held,  by  permission,  in  the  National 
schoolhouse.  No  room  in  the  inn  would  accommodate 
a  tithe  of  the  people  who  wished  to  attend.  Many  jour- 
nalists put  in  an  appearance,  the  Messenger  reporter's 
paragraphs  having  attracted  widespread  attention. 

It  was  noteworthy,  too,  that  Superintendent  Jonas 
did  not  conduct  the  case  for  the  police.  He  obtained 
the  aid  of  a  solicitor,  Mr.  Dane,  with  whom  the  coroner, 
Dr.  Magnus,  drove  from  Nottonby  in  a  closed  carriage, 
for  the  rain  had  not  ceased,  save  during  very  brief  in- 
tervals, since  the  outbreak  on  Thursday  morning. 

The  jury,  having  been  sworn,  elected  Mr.  Webster, 
grocer,  as  their  foreman,  and  proceeded  to  view  the 
body.  When  they  reassembled  in  the  schoolroom  it  was 
seen  that  Betsy,  now  Mrs.  Pickering,  was  seated  next 
her  sister.  With  them  were  two  old  people  whom  a  few 
persons  present  recognized  as  the  girls'  parents,  and 
by  Betsy's  side  was  Mr.  Stockwell.  Among  the  crowd 
of  witnesses  were  Martin,  Frank  and  Ernest  Beckett- 
Smythe,  and  Angele. 

The  mortification,  the  angry  dismay  of  Mrs.  Sau- 


196  The  Revellers 

marez  when  her  daughter  was  warned  to  attend  the  in- 
quest may  well  be  imagined.  The  police  are  no  re- 
specters of  persons,  and  P.  C.  Benson,  of  course, 
ascertained  easily  the  name  of  the  girl  concerning  whom 
Martin  and  young  Beckett-Smythe  fought  on  the  event- 
ful night.  She  might  be  an  important  witness,  so  her 
mother  was  told  to  send  her  to  the  court. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  disdained  to  accompany  the  girl  in 
person,  and  Fran9oise  was  deputed  to  act  as  convoy. 
The  Normandy  nurse's  white  linen  bands  offered  a 
quaint  contrast  to  the  black  robes  worn  by  the  other 
women  and  gave  material  for  a  descriptive  sentence  to 
every  journalist  in  the  room. 

Mr.  Beckett-Smythe,  the  vicar,  Dr.  MacGregor,  and 
the  county  analyst  occupied  chairs  beside  the  Coroner. 
The  latter  gentleman  described  the  nature  of  the  inquiry 
with  businesslike  brevity,  committing  himself  to  no 
statements  save  those  that  were  obvious.  When  he  con- 
cluded, Mr.  Dane  rose. 

"  I  appear  for  the  police,"  he  said. 

"  And  I,"  said  Mr.  Stockwell,  "  am  here  to  watch  the 
interests  of  Mrs.  Pickering,  having  received  her  hus- 
band's written  instructions  to  that  effect." 

A  deep  hush  fell  on  the  packed  assembly.  The  curious 
nature  of  the  announcement  was  a  surprise  in  itself. 
The  reporters'  pencils  were  busy,  and  the  Coroner  ad- 
justed his  spectacles. 

"  The  written  instructions  of  the  dead  man  ?  "  he 
exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  sir.  My  friend,  my  lifelong  friend,  Mr.  George 
Pickering,  was  but  too  well  aware  of  the  fate  that 
threatened  him.  I  have  here  a  letter,  written  and  signed 


The  Storm  197 

by  him  on  Thursday  morning.  With  your  permission,  I 
will  read  it." 

"  I  object,"  cried  Mr.  Dane. 

"  On  what  grounds  ?  "  asked  the  Coroner. 

"  Such  a  letter  may  have  a  prejudicial  effect  on  the 
minds  of  the  jury.  They  are  here  to  determine,  with 
your  direction,  a  verdict  to  be  arrived  at  on  certain 
evidence.  This  letter  cannot  be  regarded  as  evidence." 

Mr.  Stockwell  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  do  not  press  the  point,"  he  said.  "  I  fail  to  see 
any  harm  in  showing  a  husband's  anxiety  that  his  wife 
should  be  cleared  of  absurd  imputations." 

Mr.  Dane  reddened. 

"  I  consider  that  a  highly  improper  remark,"  he  cried. 

The  other  only  smiled.  He  had  won  the  first  round. 
The  jury  knew  what  the  letter  contained,  and  he  had 
placed  the  case  for  the  police  in  an  unfavorable 
light. 

The  first  witness,  Pickering's  farm  bailiff,  gave  formal 
evidence  of  identity. 

Then  the  Coroner  read  the  dead  man's  deposition, 
which  was  attested  by  the  local  justice  of  the  peace. 
Dr.  Magnus  rendered  the  document  impressively.  Its 
concluding  appeal  to  the  Deity  turned  all  eyes  on  Betsy. 
She  was  pale,  but  composed.  Since  her  husband's  death 
she  had  cried  but  little.  Her  mute  grief  rendered  her 
beautiful.  Sorrow  had  given  dignity  to  a  pretty  face. 
She  was  so  white,  so  unmoved  outwardly,  that  she  re- 
sembled a  clothed  statue.  Kitty  wept  quietly  all  the 
time,  but  Betsy  sat  like  one  in  a  dream. 

"  Catherine  Thwaites,"  said  the  Coroner's  officer, 
and  Kitty  was  led  by  Mr.  Jones  to  the  witness  stand. 


198  The  Revellers 

The  girl's  evidence,  punctuated  by  sobs,  was  practically 
a  resume  of  Pickering's  sworn  statement. 

From  Mr.  Dane's  attitude  it  was  apparent  that  he 
regarded  this  witness  as  untruthful. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  with  quiet  satire  in  word  and 
look,  "  as  Mr.  Pickering  impaled  himself  on  a  fork,  you 
did  not  see  your  sister  plunge  a  knife  into  his  breast  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Nor  did  you  run  down  the  garden  shrieking :  '  Oh, 
Betsy,  Betsy,  you've  killed  him.'  You  did  not  cry 
'  Murder,  murder!  Come,  someone,  for  God's  sake  '?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  I  did." 

This  unexpected  admission  puzzled  the  solicitor.  He 
darted  a  sharp  side  glace  at  Stockwell,  but  the  latter 
was  busy  scribbling  notes.  Every  pulse  in  court 
quickened. 

"  Oh,  you  did,  eh  ?  But  why  charge  your  sister  with 
a  crime  you  did  not  see  her  commit?  " 

"  Because  she  had  a  knife  in  her  hand,  and  I  saw 
Mr,  Pickering  stagger  across  the  garden  and  fall." 

"  In  what  direction  did  he  stagger?  " 

"  Away  from  the  stackyard  hedge." 

"  This  is  a  serious  matter.  You  are  on  your  oath, 
and  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  an  accessory 
after " 

Up  sprang  Stockwell. 

"  I  protest  most  strongly  against  this  witness  being 
threatened,"  he  shouted. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Dane  is  entitled  to  warn  the  witness 
against  false  testimony,"  said  the  Coroner.  "  Of  course, 
he  knows  the  grave  responsibility  attached  to  such 
insinuations." 


The  Storm  199 

Mr.  Dane  waved  an  emphatic  hand. 

"  I  require  no  threats,"  he  said.  "  I  have  evidence 
in  plenty.  Do  you  swear  that  Mr.  Pickering  did  not 
lurch  forward  from  beneath  the  pear  tree  at  the  foot  of 
the  garden  after  being  stabbed  by  your  sister,  who  sur- 
prised him  in  your  arms,  or  you  in  his  arms?  It  is  the 
same  thing." 

"  I  do,"  was  the  prompt  answer. 

The  lawyer  sat  down,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  Any  questions  to  put  to  the  witness,  Mr.  Stock- 
well?  "  said  the  Coroner. 

"  No,  sir.     I  regard  her  evidence  as  quite  clear." 

"  Will  you — er — does  your  client  Mrs.  Pickering 
wish  to  give  evidence?  " 

"  My  client — she  is  not  my  client  of  her  own  volition, 
but  by  the  definite  instructions  of  her  dead  husband — 
will  certainly  give  evidence.  May  I  express  the  hope 
that  my  learned  friend  will  not  deal  with  her  too 
harshly?  She  is  hardly  in  a  fit  state  to  appear  here 
to-day." 

Mr.  Dane  smiled  cynically,  but  made  no  reply.  He 
declined  to  help  his  adversary's  adroit  maneuvers  by 
fiery  opposition,  though  again  had  Mr.  Stockwell  suc- 
ceeded in  playing  a  trump  card. 

Betsy  was  duly  warned  by  the  Coroner  that  she  might 
be  charged  with  the  wilful  murder  of  George  Pickering, 
notwithstanding  the  sworn  deposition  read  in  court. 
She  could  exercise  her  own  judgment  as  to  whether  or 
not  she  would  offer  testimony,  but  anything  she  said 
would  be  taken  down  in  writing,  and  might  be  used  as 
evidence  against  her. 

She  never  raised  her  eyes.     Not  even  those  terrible 


200  The  Revellers 

words,  "  wilful  murder,"  had  power  to  move  her.  She 
stood  like  an  automaton,  and  seemed  to  await  permission 
to  speak. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Pickering,"  said  Dr.  Magnus,  "  tell  us, 
in  your  own  words,  what  happened." 

She  began  her  story.  No  one  could  fail  to  perceive 
that  she  was  reciting  a  narrative  learnt  by  heart.  She 
used  no  words  in  the  vernacular.  All  was  good  English, 
coherent,  simple,  straightforward.  On  the  Monday 
morning,  she  said,  she  received  a  letter  at  Hereford  from 
Fred  Marshall,  ostler  at  the  "  Black  Lion  Hotel." 

"Have  you  that  letter?"  asked  the  Coroner. 

"  Yes,"  interposed  Mr.  Stockwell.     "  Here  it  is." 

He  handed  forward  a  document.  A  buzz  of  whispered 
comment  arose.  In  compliance  with  Dr.  Magnus's  re- 
quest, Betsy  identified  it  listlessly.  Then  it  was  read 
aloud.  Apart  from  mistakes  in  spelling,  it  ran  as 
follows : 

"  Dear  Miss  Thwaites. — This  is  to  let  you  know  that 
George  Pickering  is  carrying  on  with  your  sister  Kitty. 
He  has  promised  to  meet  her  here  on  Monday.  He  has 
engaged  a  bedroom  here.  You  ought  to  come  and  stop 
it.  I  inclose  P.O.  for  one  pound  toward  your  fare. — 
Yours  truly,  Fred  Marshall,  groom,  '  Black  Lion,' 
Elmsdale.?' 

The  fact  that  this  meddlesome  personage  had  sent 
Betsy  her  railway  fare  became  known  now  for  the  first 
time.  A  hiss  writhed  through  the  court. 

"  Silence !  "  yelled  a  police  sergeant,  glaring  around 
with  steely  eyes. 

**  There  must  be  no  demonstrations  of  any  sort  here," 


The  Storm  201 

said  the  Coroner  sternly.  "  Well,  Mrs.  Pickering,  you 
traveled  to  Elmsdale?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  With  what  purpose  in  view  ?  " 

"  George  had  promised  to  marry  me.  Kitty  knew 
this  quite  well.  I  thought  that  my  presence  would  put 
an  end  to  any  courtship  that  was  going  on.  It  was  very 
wrong." 

"  None  will  dispute  that.  But  I  prefer  not  to  ques- 
tion you.  Tell  us  your  own  story." 

"  I  traveled  all  day,"  she  recommenced,  "  and  reached 
Elmsdale  station  by  the  last  train.  I  was  very  tired. 
At  the  door  of  the  inn  I  met  Fred  Marshall.  He  was 
waiting,  I  suppose.  He  told  me  George  and  Kitty  were 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden." 

A  quiver  ran  through  the  audience,  but  the  police 
sergeant  was  watching,  and  they  feared  expulsion. 

"  He  said  they  had  been  there  ten  minutes.  I  ran 
through  the  hotel  kitchen.  On  a  table  was  lying  a  long 
knife  near  a  dish  of  grouse.  I  picked  it  up,  hardly 
knowing  what  I  was  doing,  and  went  into  the  garden. 
When  I  was  halfway  down  Kitty  saw  me  and  screamed. 
George  turned  round  and  backed  away  toward  the 
middle  hedge.  I  remember  crying  out — some — things — 
but  I  do  not — know — what  I  said." 

She  swayed  slightly,  and  everyone  thought  she  was 
about  to  faint.  But  she  clutched  the  back  of  a  chair 
and  steadied  herself.  Mr.  Jones  offered  her  a  glass  of 
water,  but  she  refused  it. 

"  I  can  go  on,"  she  said  bravely. 

And  she  persevered  to  the  end,  substantially  repeat- 
ing her  sister's  evidence. 


202  The  Revellers 

When  Mr.  Dane  rose  to  cross-examine,  the  silence  in 
court  was  appalling.  The  girl's  parents  were  pallid 
with  fear.  Kitty  sat  spellbound.  Mr.  Stockwell  pushed 
his  papers  away  and  gazed  fixedly  at  his  client. 

"  Why  did  you  pick  up  the  knife,  Mrs.  Pickering?  " 
was  the  first  question. 

"  I  think — I  am  almost  sure — I  intended  to  strike 
my  sister  with  it." 

This  was  another  bombshell.  Mr.  Dane  moved  un- 
easily on  his  feet. 

"  Your  sister !  "  he  repeated  in  amazement. 

"  Yes.  She  was  aware  of  my  circumstances.  What 
right  had  she  to  be  flirting  with  my  promised 
husband  ?  " 

"  Hum !    You  have  forgiven  her  since,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"  I  forgave  her  then,  when  I  regained  my  senses.  She 
was  acting  thoughtlessly.  I  believe  that  George  and  she 
went  into  the  garden  only  to  spite  Fred  Marshall." 

Mr.  Dane  shook  his  head. 

**  So,  if  we  accept  your  statement,  Mrs.  Pickering, 
you  harmed  no  one  with  the  knife  except  yourself?  " 

"  That  is  so." 

He  seemed  to  hesitate  a  moment,  but  seemingly  made 
up  his  mind  to  leave  the  evidence  where  it  stood. 

"  I  shall  not  detain  you  long,"  said  Mr.  Stockwell 
when  his  legal  opponent  desisted  from  further  cross- 
examination.  "  You  were  married  to  Mr.  Pickering  on 
Thursday  morning  by  special  license?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  He  had  executed  a  marriage  settlement  securing 
you  £400  a  year  for  life?  " 

"  Yes." 


The  Storm  203 

"  And,  after  the  accident,  you  remained  with  him 
until  he  died?" 

"Yes— God  help  me!" 

"  Thank  you.    That  is  all." 

"  Just  one  moment,"  interposed  the  Coroner.  "  Were 
you  previously  acquainted  with  this  man,  Marshall,  the 
groom?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
when  he  met  me  at  the  hotel  door  and  asked  me  if  I  was 
Miss  Thwaites." 

"  How  did  he  obtain  your  Hereford  address  ?  It 
appears  to  be  given  in  full  on  the  envelope." 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

Fred  Marshall  was  the  next  witness.  He  was  sober 
and  exceedingly  nervous.  He  had  been  made  aware 
during  the  past  week  that  public  opinion  condemned  him 
utterly.  His  old  cronies  refused  to  drink  with  him. 
Mrs.  Atkinson  had  dismissed  him;  he  was  a  pariah,  an 
outcast,  in  the  village. 

His  evidence  consisted  of  a  disconnected  series  of 
insinuations  against  Kitty's  character,  interlarded  with 
protests  that  he  meant  no  harm.  Mr.  Stockwell  showed 
him  scant  mercy. 

"  You  say  you  saw  Mrs.  Pickering,  or  Betsy  Thwaites, 
as  she  was  at  that  time,  seize  a  knife  from  the  table?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  What  did  you  think  she  meant  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  What  she  did  do — stick  George  Pickerin'.  I  heerd 
her  bawlin'  that  oot  both  afore  an'  efther." 

The  man  was  desperate.  In  his  own  parlance,  he 
might  as  well  be  hanged  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb,  and  he 
would  spare  no  one. 


204  The  Revellers 

"  Oh,  indeed !  You  knew  she  intended  to  commit 
murder?  " 

"  I  thowt  so." 

"Then  why  did  you  not  follow  her?" 

"  I  was  skeered." 

"  What !     Afraid  of  a  weak  woman  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  didn't  give  a  damn  if  she  did  stab  him ! 
There,  ye  hev  it  straight ! " 

Mr.  Stockwell  turned  to  Mr.  Dane. 

"  If  you  are  looking  for  accessories  in  this 
trumped-up  case,  you  have  one  ready  to  hand,"  he 
exclaimed. 

"  You  must  be  careful  what  you  are  saying,  Marshall," 
observed  the  Coroner  severely.  "  And  moderate  your 
language,  too.  This  court  is  not  a  stable." 

"  He  shouldn't  badger  me,"  cried  the  witness  in  sullen 
anger. 

"  I'll  treat  you  with  great  tenderness,"  said  Mr. 
Stockwell  suavely,  and  a  general  smile  relieved  the 
tension. 

"  How  did  you  obtain  Miss  Thwaites's  address  at 
Hereford?" 

No  answer. 

"Come,  now.  Where  are  your  wits?  Will  you  accuse 
me  of  badgering  you,  if  I  suggest  that  you  stole  a  letter 
from  Kitty  Thwaites's  pocket  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  steal  it.  It  was  in  a  frock  of  hers,  hangin* 
in  her  bedroom." 

"  You  are  most  obliging.  And  the  sovereign  you  sent 
her?  Did  you,  by  any  chance,  borrow  it  from  Mrs. 
Atkinson  ?  " 

"  Frae  Mrs.  Atkinson?    Whea  said  that?  " 


The  Storm  205" 

"  Oh,  I  mean  without  her  knowledge,  of  course.  From 
Mrs.  Atkinson's  till,  I  should  have  said." 

The  chance  shot  went  home.  The  miserable  groom 
growled  a  denial,  but  no  one  believed  him.  Quite  satis- 
fied that  he  had  destroyed  the  man's  credibility,  Mr. 
Stockwell  sat  down. 

"  Martin  Court  Bolland !  "  said  the  Coroner's  officer, 
and  a  wave  of  renewed  interest  galvanized  the  court. 
Mr.  Dane  arranged  his  papers  and  looked  around  with 
the  air  of  one  who  says : 

"  Now  we  shall  hear  the  truth  of  this  business." 

Martin  came  forward.  It  chanced  that  the  first  pair 
of  eyes  he  encountered  were  Angele's.  The  girl  was 
gazing  at  him  with  a  spiteful  intensity  he  could  not  un- 
derstand. He  did  not  know  then  of  the  painful  expose 
which  took  place  at  The  Elms  when  Mrs.  Saumarez 
learnt  on  the  preceding  day  that  her  daughter  was  a 
leading  figure  among  the  children  in  the  "  Black  Lion  " 
yard  on  the  night  of  the  tragedy. 

Angele  blamed  Martin  for  having  betrayed  her  to  the 
authorities.  She  did  not  know  how  resolutely  he  had 
declined  to  mention  her  name;  he  loomed  large  in  her 
mind,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  others. 

She  regarded  him  now  with  a  venomous  malice  all 
the  more  bitter  because  of  the  ultra-friendly  relations 
she  had  forced  on  him. 

He  looked  at  her  with  genuine  astonishment.  She 
reminded  him  of  the  wildcat  he  choked  to  death  in  Thor 
ghyll.  But  he  had  to  collect  his  wandering  faculties, 
for  the  Coroner  was  speaking. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW 

MABTIN'S  evidence  was  concise.  He  happened  to  be 
in  the  "  Black  Lion  "  yard  with  other  children  at  a 
quarter  past  ten  on  Monday  night.  He  heard  a  woman's 
scream,  followed  by  a  man's  loud  cry  of  pain,  and  both 
sounds  seemed  to  come  from  the  extreme  end  of  the 
garden. 

Kitty  Thwaites  ran  toward  the  hotel  shrieking,  "  Oh, 
Betsy,  Betsy,  you've  killed  him !  "  She  screamed  "  Mur- 
der ! "  and  called  for  someone  to  come,  "  for  God's 
sake ! "  She  fell  exactly  opposite  the  place  where  he 
was  standing.  Then  he  saw  Betsy  Thwaites — he  identi- 
fied her  now  as  Mrs.  Pickering — running  after  her  sister 
and  brandishing  a  knife.  She  appeared  to  be  very  ex- 
cited, and  cried  out,  "  I'll  swing  for  him.  May  the  Lord 
deal  wi'  him  as  he  dealt  wi'  me !  "  She  called  her  sister 
a  "  strumpet,"  and  said  it  would  "  serve  her  right  to 
stick  her  with  the  same  knife."  He  was  quite  sure  those 
were  the  exact  words.  He  was  not  alarmed  in  any  way, 
only  surprised  by  the  sudden  uproar,  and  he  saw  the 
two  women  and  the  knife  as  plainly  as  if  it  were  broad 
daylight. 

Mr.  Dane  concluded  the  examination-in-chief,  which 
he  punctuated  with  expressive  glances  at  the  jury,  by 
touching  on  a  point  which  he  expected  his  acute  rival 
to  raise. 

206 


The  Unwritten  Law  207 

"  What  were  you  doing  in  the  '  Black  Lion  '  yard  at 
that  hour,  Bolland?" 

"  I  was  having  a  dispute  with  Master  Frank  Beckett- 
Smythe." 

"  What  sort  of  a  dispute?  " 

"  Well,  we  were  fighting." 

A  grin  ran  through  the  court. 

"  He  is  an  intelligent  boy  and  older  than  you.  Can 
you  suggest  any  reason  why  he  should  have  failed  to  see 
and  hear  all  that  you  saw  and  heard?  " 

Martin  paused.  He  disliked  to  pose  as  a  vainglorious 
pugilist,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"  I  got  the  better  of  him,"  he  said  quietly.  "  One,  at 
least,  of  his  eyes  were  closed,  and  I  had  just  given  him 
an  uppercut  on  the  nose." 

"  But  his  brother  was  there,  too  ?  " 

"  Master  Ernest  was  looking  after  him." 

"  How  about  the  other  children  ?  " 

"  They  ran  away." 

"All  of  them?" 

"  Well,  nearly  all.  I  can  only  speak  for  myself,  sir. 
No  doubt  the  others  will  tell  you  what  they  saw." 

Obviously,  Mr.  Dane  was  unprepared  for  the  cool  self- 
possession  displayed  by  this  farmer's  son.  He  nodded 
acquiescence  with  Martin's  views  and  sat  down. 

Mr.  Stockwell,  watching  the  boy  narrowly,  had 
caught  the  momentary  gleam  of  surprise  when  his  look 
encountered  that  of  the  pretty  dark-eyed  child  whose 
fashionable  attire  distinguished  her  from  the  village 
urchins  among  whom  she  was  sitting. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  began,  "  why  do  you  call  yourself 
Bolland?" 


208  The  Revellers 

"  That  is  my  name,  sir." 

"  Are  you  John  Holland's  son?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Then  whose  son  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  My  father  and  mother  adopted  me 
thirteen  years  ago." 

The  lawyer  gathered  by  the  expression  on  the  stolid 
faces  of  the  jury  that  this  line  of  inquiry  would  be 
fruitless. 

"  What  was  the  cause  of  the  fight  between  you  and 
young  Beckett-Smythe?  " 

This  was  the  signal  for  an  interruption  from  the  jury. 
Mr.  Webster,  the  foreman,  did  not  wish  any  slight  to  be 
placed  on  Mrs.  Saumarez.  The  upshot  might  be  that 
he  would  lose  a  good  customer.  The  Squire  dealt  at  the 
Stores.  Let  him  protect  his  own  children.  But  Mrs. 
Saumarez  needed  a  champion. 

"  May  I  ask,  sir,"  he  said  to  the  Coroner,  "  what 
a  bit  of  a  row  atween  youngsters  hez  te  do  wi'  t' 
case  ?  " 

"  Nothing  that  I  can  see,"  was  the  answer. 

"  It  has  a  highly  important  bearing,"  put  in  Mr. 
Stockwell.  "  If  my  information  is  correct,  this  witness 
is  the  only  one  whose  evidence  connects  Mrs.  Pickering 
even  remotely  with  the  injuries  received  by  her  husband. 
I  assume,  of  course,  that  Marshall's  testimony  is  not 
worth  a  straw.  I  shall  endeavor  to  elicit  facts  that  may 
tend  to  prove  the  boy's  statements  unreliable." 

"I  cannot  interfere  with  your  discretion,  Mr.  Stock- 
well,"  was  the  ruling. 

"  Now,  answer  my  question,"  cried  the  lawyer. 

Martin's  brown  eyes  flashed  back  indignantly. 


The  Unwritten  Law  209 

"  We  fought  because  I  wished  to  take  a  young  lady 
home,  and  he  tried  to  prevent  me." 

"  A  young  lady !    What  young  lady?  " 

"  I  refuse  to  mention  her  name.  You  asked  why  we 
fought,  and  I've  told  you." 

"  Why  this  squeamishness,  my  young  squire  of  dames  ? 
Was  it  not  Angele  Saumarez  ?  " 

Martin  turned  to  the  Coroner. 

"  Must  I  reply,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes.  ...  I  fail  still  to  see  the  drift  of  the  cross- 
examination,  Mr.  Stockwell." 

"  It  will  become  apparent  quickly.  Yes,  or  no, 
Bolland?" 

"  Yes ;  it  was." 

"  Was  she  committed  to  your  care  by  her  mother  ?  " 

"  No.  She  came  out  to  see  the  fair.  I  promised  to 
look  after  her." 

"  Were  you  better  fitted  to  protect  this  child  than  the 
two  sons  of  Mr.  Beckett-Smy the  ?  " 

"  I  thought  so." 

"  From  what  evil  influences,  then,  was  it  necessary  to 
rescue  her?  " 

"  That's  not  a  fair  way  to  put  it.  It  was  too  late  for 
her  to  be  out." 

"  When  did  you  discover  this  undeniable  fact  ?  " 

"  Just  then." 

"  Not  when  you  were  taking  her  through  the  fair  in 
lordly  style?" 

"  No.  There  was  no  harm  in  the  shows,  and  I  realized 
the  time  only  when  the  clock  struck  ten." 

Every  adult  listener  nodded  approval.  The  adroit 
lawyer  SAW  that  he  was  merely  strengthening  the  jury's 


210  The  Revellers 

good  opinion  of  the  boy.  He  must  strike  hard  and 
unmercifully  if  he  would  shake  their  belief  in  Martin's 
good  faith. 

"  There  were  several  other  children  there — a  boy 
named  Bates,  another  named  Beadlam,  Mrs.  Atkinson's 
three  girls,  and  others?  " 

"  Bates  was  with  me.    The  others  were  in  the  yard." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  they  had  left  you  a  few  minutes  earlier. 
Now,  is  it  not  a  fact  that  these  children,  and  you  with 
them,  had  gone  to  this  hiding-place  to  escape  being 
caught  by  your  seniors?  " 

"No;  it  is  a  lie." 

"  Is  that  your  honest  belief?    Do  you  swear  it?  " 

"  I  shirked  nothing.  Neither  did  the  others.  Hun- 
dreds of  people  saw  us.  As  for  Miss  Saumarez,  I  think 
she  went  there  for  a  lark  more  than  anything  else." 

"  A  questionable  sort  of  lark.  It  is  amazing  to  hear 
of  respectable  children  being  out  at  such  an  hour.  Did 
your  parents — did  the  parents  of  any  of  the  others 
realize  what  was  going  on?  " 

"  I  think  not.    The  whole  thing  was  an  accident." 

"  But,  surely,  there  must  be  some  adequate  explana- 
tion of  this  fight  between  you  and  Beckett-Smythe.  It 
was  no  mere  scuffle,  but  a  severe  set-to.  He  bears  even 
yet  the  marks  of  the  encounter." 

Master  Frank  was  supremely  uncomfortable  when  the 
united  gaze  of  the  court  was  thus  directed  to  him.  His 
right  eye  was  discolored,  as  all  might  see,  but  his  nose 
was  normal. 

"  I  have  told  you  the  exact  truth.  I  wished  her  to  go 
home " 

"Did  she  wish  it?" 


The  Unwritten  Law  211 

"  She  meant  to  tease  me,  an,d  said  she  would  remain. 
Frank  Beckett-Smythe  and  I  agreed  to  fight,  and  settle 
whether  she  should  go  or  stay." 

"  So  you  ask  us  to  believe  that  not  only  did  you 
engage  in  a  bout  of  fisticuffs  in  order  to  convoy  to  her 
home  a  girl  already  hours  too  late  abroad,  but  that  you 
alone,  of  all  these  children,  can  give  us  a  correct  version 
of  occurrences  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge?  " 

"  I  don't  remember  asking  you  that,  sir,"  said  Martin 
seriously,  and  the  court  laughed. 

Mr.  Stockwell  betrayed  a  little  heat. 

"  You  know  well  what  I  mean,"  he  said.  "  You  are  a 
clever  boy.  Are  you  not  depending  on  your  imagination 
for  some  of  your  facts  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  were,  sir,"  was  the  sorrowful  answer. 

Quite  unconsciously,  Martin  looked  at  Betsy.  Some 
magnetic  influence  caused  her  to  raise  her  eyes  for  the 
first  time,  and  each  gazed  into  the  soul  of  the  other. 

Mr.  Stockwell  covered  his  retreat  by  an  assumption 
of  indifference. 

"  Fortunately,  there  is  a  host  of  witnesses  to  be  heard 
in  regard  to  these  particular  events,"  he  exclaimed,  and 
Martin's  inquisition  ceased. 

The  superintendent  whispered  something  to  Mr. 
Dane,  who  rose. 

"  A  great  deal  has  been  made  out  of  this  quarrel 
about  a  little  girl,"  he  said  to  the  boy.  "  Is  it  not  the 
fact  that  you  have  endeavored  consistently  to  keep  her 
name  out  of  the  affair  altogether?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  Mrs.  Saumarez  is  only  a  visitor  here,  and 


212  The  Revellers 

her  daughter  could  not  know  anything  of  village  ways. 
I  was  mostly  to  blame  for  allowing  her  to  be  there  at  all, 
so  I  tried  to  take  it  onto  my  shoulders." 

It  was  interesting  to  note  how  Angele  received  this 
statement.  Her  black  eyes  became  tearful.  Her  hero 
was  rehabilitated.  She  worshiped  him  again  passion- 
ately. Someone  else  had  peached.  She  brushed  away 
the  tears  and  darted  a  quick  look  at  the  Squire's  eldest 
son. 

He  was  the  next  witness.  He  saw  George  Pickering 
and  Kitty  go  down  the  garden,  the  man's  arm  being 
around  Kitty's  neck.  Then  he  fought  with  Martin. 
Afterwards  he  heard  some  screaming,  but  could  not  tell 
a  word  that  was  said — he  was  too  dazed. 

"  Is  it  not  possible  the  hubbub  was  too  confused  that 
you  should  gain  any  intelligible  idea  of  it  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Stockwell. 

"  Yes,  that  might  be  so." 

"  You  are  a  bigger  boy  than  young  Bolland.  Surely 
he  could  not  pummel  the  wits  out  of  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  will  next  time.  He  caught  me  a 
stinger  by  chance." 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  this  candid  confession  of 
future  intentions.  Even  Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  and  the 
vicar  joined  in. 

"  Why  did  you  wish  to  keep  this  girl,  Angele  Sau- 
marez,  away  from  her  residence?  " 

"  She's  a  jolly  sort  of  girl,  and  I  think  we  were  all  a 
bit  off  our  heads,"  said  Frank  ruefully. 

"  But  you  had  some  motive,  some  design.  Remember, 
you  fought  to  retain  her." 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't,"   said  the  boy,  glancing  at  his 


The  Unwritten  Law  213 

father.  His  most  active  memory  was  of  a  certain  pain- 
ful interview  on  Wednesday  night. 

"  You  were  not  groggy  on  your  legs,"  was  Mr.  Stock- 
well's  first  remark  to  Ernest.  "  What  did  you  hear  or 
see  beyond  the  garden  hedge?  " 

"  There  was  a  lot  of  yelling,  and  two  women  ran 
toward  the  hotel.  The  woman  with  a  knife  was  threat- 
ening to  stick  it  into  somebody,  but  I  couldn't  tell 
who." 

"  Ah.  She  was  running  after  the  other  woman. 
Don't  you  think  she  might  have  been  threatening  her 
only?" 

"  It  certainly  looked  like  it." 

"  Can't  you  help  us  by  being  more  definite  ?  " 

"  No.  Frank  was  asking  for  a  pump.  I  was  thinking 
of  that  more  than  of  the  beastly  row  in  the  garden." 

He  was  dismissed. 

"  Angele  Saumarez." 

The  strangers  present  surveyed  the  girl  with  ex- 
pectant interest.  She  looked  a  delightfully  innocent 
child.  She  was  attired  in  the  dark  dress  she  wore  on 
the  Monday  evening.  Her  hat,  gloves,  and  shoes  were 
in  perfect  taste.  No  personality  could  be  more  oddly 
at  variance  with  a  village  brawl  than  this  delicate,  gos- 
samer, fairylike  little  mortal. 

She  gave  her  evidence  without  constraint  or  shyness. 
rier  pretty  continental  accent  enhanced  the  charm  of 
her  manners.  In  no  sense  forward,  she  won  instant  ap- 
probation, and  the  general  view  was  that  she  had  drifted 
into  an  unpleasant  predicament  by  sheer  force  of  cir- 
cumstances. The  mere  love  of  fun  brought  her  out  to 
see  the  fair,  and  her  presence  in  the  stackyard  was 


214  The  Revellers 

accounted  for  by  a  girlish  delight  in  setting  boys  at 
loggerheads. 

But  she  helped  the  police  contention  by  declaring  that 
she  heard  Betsy  say : 

"  I'll  swing  for  him." 

"  I  remember,"  she  said  sweetly,  "  wondering  what 
she  meant.  To  swing  for  anybody !  That  is  odd." 

"  Might  it  not  have  been  '  for  her  '  and  not  '  for 
him'?"  suggested  Mr.  Stockwell. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  agreed  Angele.  "  I  wouldn't  be  sure 
about  that.  They  talk  queerly,  these  people.  I  am  cer- 
tain about  the  *  swing.' ' 

Really,  there  never  was  a  more  simple  little  maid. 

"  You  must  never  again  go  out  at  night  to  such 
places,"  remarked  the  Coroner  paternally. 

She  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"  Mamma  was  very  angry,"  she  simpered.  "  I  have 
been  kept  at  home  for  days  and  days  on  account  of 
it." 

She  glanced  at  Martin.  That  explanation  was  in- 
tended for  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Beckett- 
Smythe  called  at  The  Elms  on  Thursday  morning  and 
told  Mrs.  Saumarez  that  her  child  needed  more  control. 
He  had  thrashed  Frank  soundly  the  previous  evening 
for  riding  off  to  a  rendezvous  fixed  with  Angele  for 
nine  o'clock.  He  whispered  this  information  to  Mr. 
Herbert,  and  the  vicar's  eyes  opened  wide. 

The  other  non-professional  witnesses,  children  and 
adults,  did  not  advance  the  inquiry  materially.  Many 
heard  Kitty  shrieking  that  her  sister  had  murdered 
George  Pickering,  but  Kitty  herself  had  admitted  saying 
so  under  a  misapprehension. 


The  Unwritten  Law  215 

P.  C.  Benson  raised  an  important  point.  The  pitch- 
fork was  first  mentioned  about  eleven  o'clock,  when  Mr. 
Pickering  was  able  to  talk  coherently,  after  being  laid 
on  a  bed  and  drinking  some  brandy.  Neither  of  the 
two  women  had  spoken  of  it.  And  there  were  footprints 
that  did  not  bear  out  the  movements  described  in  the 
dead  man's  deposition. 

"  But  Mr.  Pickering's  first  lucid  thought  referred  to 
this  implement?  "  said  Mr.  Stockwell. 

"  Neabody  was  holdin'  him,  sir." 

The  policeman  imagined  the  lawyer  had  said  "  loos- 
ened." 

"  I  mean  that  the  first  account  he  ever  gave  of  this 
accident  referred  to  the  pitchfork,  and  his  subsequent 
statements  were  to  the  same  effect." 

"  Oah,  yes.    There's  no  denyin'  that." 

"And  you  found  the  fork  lying  exactly  where  he 
described  its  position?" 

"  Why,  yes ;  but  he  was  a  desp'rate  lang  time  i' 
studdyin'  t'  matter  oot  afore  he's  speak." 

"  Do  you  suggest  that  someone  placed  the  fork  there 
by  his  instructions  ?  " 

"  Noa,  sir.    Most  like  he'd  seen  it  there  hissen." 

"  Then  why  do  you  refuse  to  accept  his  statement 
that  an  accident  took  place?  " 

"  Because  I  fund  his  footprints  where  he  ran  across 
t'  garden  te  t'  spot  where  he  was  picked  up." 

"  Footprints !    After  a  month  of  fine  weather ! " 

"  It  was  soft  mold,  sir,  an'  they  were  plain  enough." 

"  Were  not  a  dozen  men  running  about  this  garden 
at  twenty  minutes  past  ten  ?  " 

"  Ay— quite  that." 


216  The  Revellers 

"  And  you  tell  us  coolly  that  you  could  distinguish 
those  of  one  man?  " 

"  There  was  on'y  one  man's  track  i'  that  pleace, 
sir." 

Benson  was  not  to  be  flurried.  Mr.  Jonas  and  a 
police  sergeant  corroborated  his  opinion. 

Dr.  MacGregor  followed.  He  described  Pickering's 
wound,  the  nature  of  his  illness,  and  the  cause  of  death. 
The  stab  itself  was  not  of  a  fatal  character.  Had  it 
diverged  slightly  it  must  have  reached  the  lung.  As 
it  was,  the  poison,  not  the  knife,  had  done  the  mischief. 

The  county  analyst  was  scientifically  dogmatic.  His 
analyses  had  been  conducted  with  the  utmost  care.  The 
knife  was  contaminated,  the  pitchfork  was  only  rusty. 
The  latter  was  a  dangerous  implement,  but  in  no  way 
responsible  for  the  state  of  Pickering's  blood  corpus- 
cles. 

Mr.  Dane,  of  course,  made  the  most  of  these  wit- 
nesses, but  Mr.  Stockwell  wisely  forbore  from  pressing 
them,  and  thus  hammering  the  main  items  again  into 
the  heads  of  the  jury. 

The  Coroner  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  six  o'clock. 
Neither  of  the  solicitors  was  permitted  to  address  the 
court,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  conclude  the  inquiry 
forthwith. 

"  There  is  one  matter  which  might  be  cleared  up,"  he 
said.  "  Where  is  Marshall,  the  groom  ?  " 

It  was  discovered  that  the  man  had  left  the  court 
half  an  hour  ago.  He  had  not  returned.  P.  C.  Benson 
was  sent  to  find  him.  The  two  came  back  in  five  minutes. 
Their  arrival  was  heralded  by  loud  shouts  and  laughter 
outside.  When  they  entered  the  schoolroom  Marshall 


The  Unwritten  Law  217 

presented  a  ludicrous  spectacle.  He  was  dripping  wet, 
and  not  from  rain,  for  his  clothes  were  covered  with  slime 
and  mud. 

It  transpired  that  he  had  gone  to  a  public  house  for 
a  pint  of  beer.  Several  men  and  youths  who  could  not 
gain  admittance  to  the  court  took  advantage  of  the 
absence  of  the  police  and  amused  themselves  by  ducking 
him  in  a  convenient  horse  pond. 

The  Coroner,  having  expressed  his  official  annoyance 
at  the  incident,  asked  the  shivering  man  if  he  followed 
Betsy  into  the  garden. 

No ;  he  saw  her  go  out  through  the  back  door. 

"  Then  the  threats  you  heard  were  uttered  while  she 
was  in  the  passage  of  the  hotel  or  in  the  kitchen?  " 

Yes ;  that  was  so. 

"  It  is  noteworthy,"  said  the  Coroner,  "  that  none  of 
the  children  heard  this  young  woman  going  toward  the 
couple.  She  must  have  run  swiftly  and  silently  down 
the  path,  and  the  witnesses  were  so  absorbed  in  the  fight 
that  she  passed  them  unheard  and  unseen." 

Mr.  Stockwell  frowned.  If  this  gave  any  indication 
of  the  Coroner's  summing-up,  it  was  not  favorable  to 
his  client. 

Dr.  Magnus  showed  at  once  that  he  meant  to  cast 
aside  all  sentimental  considerations  and  adhere  solely 
to  the  judicial  elements.  He  treated  George  Pickering's 
deposition  with  all  respect,  but  pointed  out  that  the 
dying  man  might  be  actuated  by  the  desire  to  make 
atonement  to  the  woman  he  had  wronged.  The  human 
mind  was  capable  of  strange  vagaries.  A  man  who 
would  slight,  or,  at  any  rate,  be  indifferent,  to  one  of 
the  opposite  sex,  when  far  removed  from  personal  con- 


218  The  Revellers 

tact,  was  often  swayed  by  latent  ties  of  affection  when 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  woman  herself. 

In  a  word,  the  Coroner  threw  all  his  weight  on  the 
side  of  the  police  and  against  Betsy.  He  regarded  Fred 
Marshall  and  young  Bolland  as  truthful  witnesses, 
though  inspired  by  different  motives,  and  deemed  the 
medical  evidence  conclusive. 

Betsy  sat  sphinx-like  through  this  ordeal.  Her  un- 
happy parents,  and  even  more  unhappy  sister,  were  pro- 
foundly distressed,  and  Stockwell  watched  the  jury 
keenly  as  each  damning  point  against  his  client  was 
emphasized. 

"  The  law  is  quite  clear  in  affairs  of  this  kind,"  con- 
cluded Dr.  Magnus  gravely.  "  Either  this  unfortunate 
man  was  murdered,  in  which  event  your  verdict  can  only 
take  one  form,  or  he  met  with  an  accident.  Most 
fortunately,  the  last  word  does  not  rest  with  this  court, 
or  it  would  be  impossible  to  close  the  inquiry  to-day. 
The  deceased  himself  raised  a  pertinent  question:  Why 
did  his  wife  escape  blood-poisoning,  although  he  became 
infected?  But  the  solicitors  present  apparently  concur 
with  me  that  this  is  a  matter  which  must  be  determined 
elsewhere " 

"  No,  no,"  broke  in  Mr.  Stockwell.  "  I  admit  nothing 
of  the  sort." 

The  Coroner  bowed. 

"  You  have  the  benefit  of  my  opinion,  gentlemen,"  he 
said  to  the  jury.  "  You  must  retire  now  and  consider 
your  verdict." 

The  jury  filed  out  into  a  classroom,  an  unusual  pro- 
ceeding, but  highly  expedient  in  an  inquiry  of  such  im- 
portance. Tongues  were  loosened  instantly,  and  a  hum 


The  Unwritten  Law  219 

of  talk  arose,  while  the  witnesses  signed  their  recorded 
statements.  Kitty  endeavored  to  arouse  her  sister  from 
the  condition  of  stupor  in  which  she  remained,  and  the 
girl's  mother  placed  an  arm  around  her  shoulders.  But 
Betsy  paid  little  heed.  Her  mind  dwelt  on  one  object 
only — a  sheet-covered  form,  lying  cold  and  inanimate 
in  a  room  of  the  neighboring  hotel. 

Angele  sidled  toward  Martin  when  a  movement  in 
court  permitted.  Fran9oise  would  have  restrained  her, 
but  the  child  slid  along  a  bench  so  quickly  that  the 
nurse's  protest  came  too  late. 

"  Martin,"  she  whispered,  "  you  behaved  beautifully. 
I  was  so  angry  with  you  at  first.  But  it  was  not  you. 
I  know  now.  Evelyn  Atkinson  told." 

"  I  wish  it  had  never  happened,"  said  the  boy  bitterly. 
He  hated  the  notion  that  his  evidence  was  the  strongest 
link  in  the  chain  encircling  the  hapless  Betsy. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  find  it  bad,  this  court.  One  is  all  pins 
and  needles  at  first.  But  the  men  are  nice." 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  ourselves,"  he  growled. 

"  Tiens !    Of  whom,  then?  " 

"Angele,  you're  awfully  selfish.  What  have  we  to 
endure,  compared  with  poor  Mrs.  Pickering?  " 

"  Oh,  pouf !  That  is  her  affair.  Mamma  beat  me  on 
Thursday.  Beat  me,  look  you!  But  I  made  her  stop, 
oh,  so  quickly.  Miss  Walker  pretends  that  mamma  was 
ill.  I  know  better,  and  so  do  you.  I  said  if  she  hit  me 
again " 

He  caught  her  wrist. 

"  Shut  up ! "  he  said  in  a  firm  whisper. 

"  Don't.  You  are  hurting  me.  Why  are  you  so 
horrid?  Do  you  want  me  to  be  beaten?  " 


220  The  Revellers 

"  No ;  but  how  can  you  dare  threaten  your  mother  ?  " 

"  I  would  dare  anything  rather  than  be  kept  in  the 
house — away  from  you." 

Frank  Beckett-Smythe,  sitting  near  his  father,  was 
wondering  dully  why  he  had  been  such  a  fool  as  to  incur 
severe  penalties  for  the  sake  of  this  "  silly  kid,"  who 
was  now  ogling  his  rival  and  whispering  coyly  in  that 
rival's  ear.  Martin  was  welcome  to  her,  for  all  he  cared. 
No  girl  was  worth  the  uneasiness  of  the  chair  he  occu- 
pied, for  his  father's  hunting-crop  had  fallen  with  such 
emphasis  that  he  felt  the  bruises  yet. 

The  jury  returned.  They  had  been  absent  half  an 
hour.  Mr.  Webster  was  flustered — that  was  per- 
ceptible instantly.  He,  as  foreman,  had  to  deliver 
the  finding. 

"  Have  you  agreed  as  to  your  verdict?  "  said  the 
Coroner. 

"  We  have." 

"And  it  is?" 

"  Not  guilty !  " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about?  This  is  not  a  criminal 
court.  You  are  asked  to  determine  how  George  Picker- 
ing met  his  death." 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  stammered  Mr.  Webster.  He  turned 
anxiously  to  his  colleagues.  Some  of  them  prompted 
him. 

"  I  mean,"  he  went  on,  "  that  our  verdict  is  c  Acci- 
dental death.'  That's  it,  sir.  '  Accidental  death,'  I 
should  hev  said.  Mr.  Pickerin's  own  words " 

The  Coroner  frowned. 

"  It  is  an  amazing  verdict,"  he  said.  "  I  feel  it  my 
bounden  duty " 


The  Unwritten  Law  221 

Mr.  Stockwell,  pale  but  determined,  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"  Do  hear  me  for  one  moment ! "  he  cried. 

The  Coroner  did  not  answer,  so  the  solicitor  took 
advantage  of  the  tacit  permission. 

"  I  well  recognize  that  the  police  cannot  let  the  mat- 
ter rest  here,"  he  pleaded.  "  On  your  warrant  they 
will  arrest  my  client.  Such  a  proceeding  is  unnecessary. 
In  her  present  state  of  health  it  might  be  fatal.  Surely 
it  will  suffice  if  you  record  your  dissent  and  the  inquiry 
is  left  to  other  authorities.  I  am  sure  that  you,  that 
Mr.  Dane,  will  forgive  the  informality  of  my  request. 
It  arises  solely  from  motives  of  humanity." 

The  Coroner  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Stockwell,  but  I  must  discharge 
my  duty  conscientiously.  The  verdict  is  against  the 
weight  of  evidence,  and  the  ultimate  decision  rests  with 
me,  not  with  the  jury.  They  have  chosen  deliberately  to 
ignore  my  directions,  and  I  have  no  option  but  to  set 
aside  their  finding.  I  am  compelled  to  issue  a  warrant 
charging  your  client  with  *  wilful  murder.'  Protests 
only  render  the  task  more  painful,  and  I  may  point  out 
that,  under  any  circumstances,  the  date  of  arrest  can- 
not be  long  deferred." 

A  howl  of  vehement  indignation  came  from  the  packed 
court.  Nearly  everyone  present  sympathized  with 
Betsy.  They  accepted  George  Pickering's  dying  decla- 
ration as  final ;  they  regarded  the  Coroner's  attitude  as 
outrageous. 

For  an  instant  the  situation  was  threatening.  It 
looked  as  though  the  people  would  wrest  the  girl  from 
the  hands  of  the  police  by  main  force.  Old  Mrs. 


222  The  Revellers 

Thwaites  fainted,  Kitty  screamed  dreadful  words  at 
the  Coroner,  and  the  girl's  father  sprawled  across  the 
table  with  his  face  in  his  hands  and  crying  pitifully. 

Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  rose,  but  none  would  listen. 
There  was  a  scene  of  tense  excitement.  Already  men 
were  crowding  to  the  center  of  the  room,  while  an  irre- 
sistible rush  from  outside  drove  a  policeman  headlong 
from  the  door. 

Mr.  Herbert  strove  to  make  himself  heard,  but  an 
overwrought  member  of  the  jury  bellowed: 

"  Mak'  him  record  oor  vardict,  parson.  What  right 
hez  he  te  go  agean  t'  opinion  o*  twelve  honest  men?  " 

Solicitors  and  reporters  gathered  their  papers  hastily, 
fearing  an  instant  onslaught  on  the  Coroner,  and  some- 
one chanced  to  step  on  Angele's  foot  as  she  clung  in 
fright  to  Martin.  The  child  squealed  loudly;  her  toes 
had  been  squeezed  under  a  heavy  boot. 

Fran9oise,  whose  broad  Norman  face  depicted  every 
sort  of  bewilderment  at  the  tumult  which  had  sprung 
up  for  some  cause  she  in  no  way  understood,  rose  at  the 
child's  cry  of  anguish,  and  incontinently  flung  two 
pressmen  out  of  her  path.  She  reached  Angele  and 
faced  the  crowd  with  splendid  courage. 

The  voluble  harangue  she  poured  forth  in  French, 
her  uncommon  costume,  and  fierce  gesticulations  gained 
her  a  hearing  which  would  have  been  denied  any  other 
person  in  the  room,  save,  perhaps,  Betsy.  And  Betsy 
was  striving  to  bring  her  mother  back  to  consciousness, 
without,  however,  departing  in  the  least  particular  from 
her  own  attitude  of  stoic  despair. 

The  Coroner  availed  himself  of  the  momentary  lull. 
Fran9oise  paused  for  sheer  lack  of  breath,  and  Dr. 


The  Unwritten  Law  223 

Magnus  made  his  voice  heard  far  out  into  the  village 
street. 

"Why  all  this  excitement?"  he  shouted.  "The 
jury's  verdict  will  be  recorded,  but  you  cannot  force  me 
to  agree  with  it.  The  police  need  not  arrest  Mrs. 
Pickering  on  my  warrant  at  once.  I  hope  they  will  not 
do  so.  Surely,  as  men  of  sense,  you  will  not  endeavor 
to  defy  the  law?  You  are  injuring  this  poor  woman's 
cause  by  an  unseemly  turmoil.  Make  way,  there,  at  the 
door,  and  allow  Mrs.  Pickering  to  escort  her  mother  to 
the  hotel.  You  are  frightening  women  and  children  by; 
your  bluster." 

Mr.  Stockwell  joined  the  superintendent  in  appeal- 
ing to  the  crowd  to  disperse,  and  the  crisis  passed.  In 
a  few  minutes  the  members  of  the  Thwaites  family  were 
safe  within  the  portals  of  the  inn,  and  the  schoolroom 
was  empty  of  all  save  a  few  officials  and  busy  re- 
porters. 

Fran9oise  held  fast  to  Angele,  but  the  girl  appealed 
to  Martin  to  accompany  her  a  little  way.  He  yielded, 
though  he  turned  back  before  reaching  the  vicarage. 

"  Mother  and  I  are  coming  to  tea  to-morrow,"  she 
cried  as  they  parted. 

"  All  right,"  he  replied.  "  Mind  you  don't  vex  her 
again." 

"  Not  I.  She  will  want  to  hear  all  about  the  inquest. 
It  was  as  good  as  a  play.  Wasn't  Fran9oise  funny? 
Oh,  I  do  wish  you  had  understood  her.  She  called  the 
men  '  sacres  cochons  d'Anglais ! '  It  is  so  naughty  in 
English." 

On  the  green,  and  dotted  about  the  roadway,  excited 
groups  discussed  the  lively  episode  in  the  schoolroom. 


224  The  Revellers 

They  were  rancorous  against  the  Coroner,  and  not  a  few 
boohed  as  he  entered  his  carriage  with  Mr.  Dane. 

"  Ay,  they'd  hang  t'  poor  lass,  t'  pair  of  'em,  if  they 
could,"  shouted  a  buxom  woman. 

"  Sheam  on  ye !  "  screamed  another.  "  I'll  lay  owt 
ye  won't  sleep  soond  i'  yer  beds  te-neet." 

But  these  vaporings  broke  no  bones,  and  the  Coroner 
drove  away,  glad  enough  that  so  far  as  he  was  concerned 
a  distasteful  experience  had  ended. 

The  persistent  rain  soon  cleared  loiterers  from  the 
center  of  the  village.  John  Bolland  came  to  the  farm 
while  Martin  was  eating  a  belated  meal. 

"  A  nice  deed  there  was  at  t'  inquest,  I  hear,"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  know  what's  come  te  Elmsdale.  It's  fair  smit- 
ten wi'  a  moral  pestilence.  One  reads  o'  sike  doin's  i' 
foreign  lands,  but  I  nivver  thowt  te  see  'em  i'  this  law- 
abidin'  counthry." 

Then  Martha  flared  up. 

"  Whea's  i'  t'  fault?  "  she  cried.  "  Can  ye  bleam  t' 
folk  for  lossin'  their  tempers  when  a  daft  Crowner  cooms 
here  an'  puts  hissen  up  agean  t'  jury?  If  he  had  a  bit 
o'  my  tongue,  I'd  teng  (sting)  him !  " 

So  Elmsdale  declared  itself  unhesitatingly  on  Betsy's 
side.  A  dead  man's  word  carried  more  weight  than  all 
the  law  in  the  land. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
UNDERCURRENTS 

UNDOUBTEDLY  the  Coroner's  expedient  had  prevented 
a  riot  in  the  village.  The  police  deferred  execution  of 
the  warrant,  and  Mr.  Stockwell,  recognizing  the  hope- 
lessness of  the  situation,  co-operated  with  them  in  mak- 
ing arrangements  which  would  serve  to  allay  public 
excitement. 

The  dead  man  was  removed  unobtrusively  to  his  Not- 
tonby  residence  on  Sunday  evening.  Accompanying  the 
hearse  was  a  closed  carriage  in  which  rode  Mrs.  Picker- 
ing and  Kitty.  At  the  door  of  Wetherby  Lodge,  Mr. 
Stockwell  met  the  cortege,  and  when  the  coffin  was  in- 
stalled in  the  spacious  library  the  solicitor  introduced 
the  weeping  servants  to  their  temporary  mistress,  since 
he  and  Mr.  Herbert  had  decided  that  she  ought  to 
reside  in  the  house  for  a  time.  Such  a  fact,  when  it 
became  known,  would  help  to  mold  public  opinion. 

An  elderly  housekeeper  was  minded  to  greet  Betsy 
with  bitter  words.  Her  young  master  had  been  dear 
to  her,  and  she  had  not  scrupled  earlier  to  denounce  in 
scathing  terms  the  woman  who  had  encompassed  his 
death. 

But  the  sight  of  the  wan,  white  face,  the  sorrow-laden 
eyes,  the  graceful,  shrinking  figure  of  the  girl-widow, 
restrained  an  imminent  outburst,  and  the  inevitable  re- 
action carried  the  housekeeper  to  the  other  extreme. 

225 


226  The  Revellers 

"  How  d'ye  do,  ma'am,"  she  said  brokenly.  "  'Tis  a 
weary  homecomin'  ye've  had.  Mebbe  ye'll  be  likin'  a 
cup  o'  tea." 

Betsy  murmured  that  she  had  no  wants,  but  York- 
shire regards  food  as  a  panacea  for  most  evils,  and  the 
housekeeper  bade  one  of  the  maids  "  put  a  kettle  on." 

So  the  ice  was  broken,  and  Mr.  Stockwell  breathed 
freely  again,  for  he  had  feared  difficulty  in  this  quarter. 

On  Monday  Pickering  was  buried,  and  the  whole 
countryside  attended  the  funeral,  which  was  made  im- 
pressive by  the  drumming  and  marching  of  the  dead 
man's  company  of  Territorials.  On  Tuesday  morning 
a  special  sitting  of  the  county  magistrates  was  held  in 
the  local  police  court.  Betsy  attended  with  her  solicitor, 
the  Coroner's  warrant  was  enforced,  she  was  charged 
by  the  police  with  the  murder  of  George  Pickering,  and 
remanded  for  a  week  in  custody. 

The  whole  affair  was  carried  out  so  unostentatiously 
that  Betsy  was  in  jail  before  the  public  knew  that  she 
had  appeared  at  the  police  court.  In  one  short  week 
the  unhappy  dairymaid  had  experienced  sharp  transi- 
tions. She  had  become  a  wife,  a  widow.  She  was  raised 
from  the  condition  of  a  wage-earner  to  the  status  of  an 
independent  lady,  and  taken  from  a  mansion  to  a  prison. 
Bereft  of  her  husband  by  her  own  act  and  separated 
from  friends  and  relatives  by  the  inexorable  decree  of 
the  law,  she  was  faced  by  the  uncertain  issue  of  a  trial 
by  an  impartial  judge  and  a  strange  jury.  Surely,  the 
Furies  were  exhausting  their  spite  on  one  frail  creature. 

On  Sunday  evening  Mrs.  Saumarez  drove  in  her  car 
through  the  rain  to  tea  at  the  White  House.  She  was 
alone.  Her  manner  was  more  reserved  than  usual, 


Undercurrents  227 

though  she  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Bolland  with  a  quiet 
friendliness  that  more  than  atoned  for  the  perceptible 
change  in  her  demeanor.  Her  wonted  air  of  affable 
condescension  had  gone.  Her  face  held  a  new  serious- 
ness which  the  other  woman  was  quick  to  perceive. 

"  I  have  come  to  have  a  little  chat  with  you,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  going  away  soon." 

The  farmer's  wife  thought  she  understood. 

"  I'm  rale  sorry  te  hear  that,  yer  leddyship." 

"Indeed,  I  regret  the  necessity  myself.  But  recent 
events  have  opened  my  eyes  to  the  danger  of  allowing 
my  child  to  grow  up  in  the  untrammeled  freedom  which 
I  have  permitted — encouraged,  I  may  say.  It  breaks 
my  heart  to  be  stern  toward  her.  I  must  send  her  to  the 
South,  where  there  are  good  schools,  where  others  will 
fulfil  obligations  in  which  I  have  failed." 

And,  behold !  Mrs.  Saumarez  choked  back  a  sob. 

"  Eh,  ma'am,"  cried  the  perturbed  Martha,  "  there's 
nowt  to  greet  aboot.  T'  lass  is  young  eneuf  yet,  an' 
she's  a  bonny  bairn,  bless  her  heart.  We  all  hae  te  part 
wi'  'em.  It'll  trouble  me  sore  when  Martin  goes  away, 
but  'twill  be  for  t'  lad's  good." 

"  You  dear  woman,  you  have  nothing  to  reproach 
yourself  with.  I  have.  Your  fine  boy  would  never 
dream  of  rending  your  soul  as  Angele  has  rent  mine  to- 
day— all  because  I  wished  her  to  read  an  instructive 
book  instead  of  a  French  novel." 

"  Mebbe  you  were  a  bit  hard  wi'  her,"  said  the  older 
woman.  "  To  be  sure,  ye  wouldn't  be  suited  by  this 
nasty  inquest;  but  is  it  wise  to  change  all  at  once? 
Slow  an'  sure,  ma'am,  is  better'n  fast  an'  feckless. 
Where  is  t'  little  'un  now?  " 


228  The  Revellers 

"  At  home,  crying  her  eyes  out  because  I  insisted  that 
she  should  remain  there." 

"  Ay,  I  reckon  she'd  be  wantin'  te  see  Martin." 
"  Do  you  think  I  may  have  been  too  severe  with  her  ?  " 
"  It's  not  for  t'  likes  o'  me  to  advise  a  leddy  like  you, 
but  yon  bairn  needs  to  be  treated  gently,  for  all  t' 
wulld  like  a  bit  o'  delicate  chiney.     Noo,  when  Martin 
was  younger,  I'd  gie  him  a  slap  ower  t'  head,  an'  he'd 
grin  t'  minnit  me  back  was  turned.    Your  little  gell  is 
different." 

"  In  my  place,  would  you  go  back  for  her  now?  " 
"  No,  ma'am,  I  wouldn't.     That'd  show  weak.     But 
I'd  mek  up  for't  te-morrow.     Then  she'll  think  all  t' 
more  o'  yer  kindness." 

So  the  regeneration  of  Angele  commenced.  Was  it 
too  late?  She  was  only  a  child  \n  years.  Surely  there 
was  yet  time  to  mold  her  character  in  better  shape. 
Mrs.  Saumarez  hoped  so.  She  dried  her  tears,  and,  with 
Bolland's  appearance,  the  conversation  turned  on  the 
lamentable  weather.  She  was  surprised  to  hear  that 
August  was  often  an  unsettled  month,  though  this  storm 
was  not  only  belated  but  almost  unprecedented  in  its 
severity. 

Mr.  Herbert  went  to  Nottonby  early  next  day.  He 
attended  the  funeral,  heard  the  will  read  at  Wetherby 
Grange  in  the  presence  of  some  disappointed  cousins  of 
the  dead  man,  visited  Betsy  to  say  a  few  consoling 
words,  and  drove  back  to  the  vicarage  through  the 
unceasing  rain. 

Tea  awaited  him  in  the  drawing-room,  but  his  first 
glance  at  Elsie  alarmed  him.  Her  face  was  flushed,  her 
eyes  red.  She  was  a  most  woebegone  little  maid. 


Undercurrents  229 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  I  want  you — to  forgive  me — first,"  she  stammered 
brokenly. 

"  Forgive  you,  my  darling!    Forgive  you  for  what?  " 

"  I've  been — reading  the  paper." 

He  drew  her  to  his  knee. 

"  What  crime  is  there  in  reading  the  paper,  sweet 
one?" 

"  I  mean  that  horrid  inquest,  father  dear." 

"Oh!" 

The  smiling  wonder  left  his  face.  Elsie  looked  up 
timidly. 

"  I  ought  to  have  asked  your  permission,"  she  said, 
"  but  you  were  away,  and  auntie  has  a  headache,  and 
Miss  Holland  (her  governess)  has  gone  on  her  holidays, 
and  I  was  so  curious  to  know  what  all  the  bother  was 
about." 

Yet  he  did  not  answer.  Hitherto  his  daughter,  his 
one  cherished  possession,  had  been  kept  sedulously  from 
knowledge  of  the  external  world.  But  she  was  shooting 
up,  slender  and  straight,  the  image  of  her  dead  mother. 
Soon  she  would  be  a  woman,  and  it  was  no  part  of  his 
theory  of  life  that  a  girl  should  be  plunged  into  the 
jungle  of  adult  existence  without  a  reasonable  conscious- 
ness of  its  snares  and  pitfalls.  So  ideal  were  the  rela- 
tions of  father  and  daughter  that  the  vicar  had  deferred 
the  day  of  enlightenment.  It  had  come  sooner  than  he 
counted  on. 

Elsie  was  frightened  now.  Her  tears  ceased  and  the 
flush  left  her  cheeks. 

"Are  you  very  angry?"  she  whispered.  He  kissed 
her. 


230  The  Revellers 

"  No,  darling,  not  angry,  but  just  a  little  pained.  It 
was  an  unpleasing  record  for  your  eyes.  There,  now. 
Give  me  some  tea,  and  we'll  talk  about  it.  You  may 
have  formed  some  mistaken  notions.  Tell  me  what  you 
thought  of  it  all.  In  any  case,  Elsie,  why  were  you 
crying?  " 

"  I  was  so  sorry  for  that  poor  woman.  And  why  did 
the  Coroner  believe  she  killed  her  husband,  when  Mr. 
Pickering  said  she  had  not  touched  him  ?  " 

The  vicar  saw  instantly  that  the  girl  had  missed  the 
more  unpleasing  phases  of  the  tragedy.  He  smiled 
again. 

"  Bring  me  the  paper,"  he  said.  "  I  was  present  at 
the  inquest.  Perhaps  the  story  is  somewhat  garbled." 

She  obeyed.  He  cast  a  critical  glance  over  the  leaded 
columns,  for  the  weekly  newspaper  had  given  practically 
a  verbatim  report  of  the  evidence,  and  there  was  a  vivid 
description  of  the  scene  in  the  schoolroom,  with  its  dra- 
matic close. 

"  It  is  by  no  means  certain,  from  the  evidence  ten- 
dered, that  the  Coroner  is  right,"  said  Mr.  Herbert 
slowly.  "  In  these  matters,  however,  the  police  are  com- 
pelled to  sift  all  statements  thoroughly,  and  the  only 
legal  way  is  to  frame  a  charge.  Although  Mrs.  Picker- 
ing may  be  tried  for  murder,  it  does  not  follow  that  she 
will  be  convicted." 

"  But,"  questioned  Elsie,  "  Martin  Bolland  said  he 
heard  her  crying  out  that  she  had  killed  Mr. 
Pickering?  " 

"  He  may  have  misunderstood." 

"Just  imagine  him  fighting  with  Frank,  and  about 
Angele  Saumarez,  too." 


Undercurrents  231 

"  You  may  take  it  from  me  that  Martin  behaved  very 
well  indeed.  Angele  is  a  little  vixen,  a  badly  behaved, 
spoilt  child,  I  fear.  Young  Beckett-Smythe  is  a  booby 
who  encouraged  her  wilfulness.  Martin  thrashed  him. 
It  would  have  been  far  better  had  Martin  not  been  there 
at  all ;  but  if  he  were  my  son  I  should  still  be  proud  of 
him." 

The  girl's  face  brightened  visibly.  There  was  mani- 
fest relief  in  her  voice. 

"  I  am  so  glad  we've  had  this  talk,"  she  cried.  "  I — 
like  Martin,  and  it  did  seem  so  odd  that  he  should  have 
been  fighting  about  Angele." 

"  He  knew  she  ought  to  be  at  home,  and  told  her  so. 
Frank  interfered,  and  got  punched  for  his  pains.  It 
served  him  right." 

She  helped  herself  to  a  large  slice  of  tea-cake. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  was  so  silly  as  to  cry — but — I 
really  did  think  Mrs.  Pickering  was  in  awful  trouble." 

The  vicar  laid  the  paper  aside.  His  innocent-minded 
daughter  had  not  even  given  a  thought  to  the  vital  issues 
of  the  affair.  He  breathed  freely,  and  told  her  of  the 
funeral.  Nevertheless,  he  had  failed  to  fathom  the 
cause  of  those  red  eyes. 

A  servant  clearing  the  tea-table  bethought  her  of  a 
note  which  came  for  Mr.  Herbert  some  two  hours  earlier. 
She  brought  it  from  the  study.  It  was  from  Mrs. 
Saumarez,  inviting  him  and  Elsie  to  luncheon  next  day. 

"  Angele  will  be  delighted,"  she  wrote,  "  if  Elsie  will 
remain  longer  than  usual.  It  is  dull  for  children  to  be 
cooped  within  doors  during  this  miserable  weather.  I 
am  asking  Martin  Bolland  to  join  us  for  tea." 

Mr.  Herbert  was  a  kind-hearted  man,  yet  he  wished 


232  The  Revellers 

most  emphatically  that  Mrs.  Saumarez  had  not  proffered 
this  request.  To  make  an  excuse  for  his  daughter's  non- 
attendance  would  convey  a  distinct  slight  which  could 
only  be  interpreted  in  one  way,  after  the  publicity  given 
to  Angele's  appearance  at  the  inquest.  He  shirked  the 
ordeal.  Bother  Angele ! 

He  glanced  covertly  at  Elsie.  All  unconscious  of  the 
letter's  contents,  the  girl  was  looking  out  ruefully  at 
the  leaden  sky.  There  might  be  no  more  picnics  for 
weeks. 

"  Mrs.  Saumarez  has  invited  us  to  luncheon,"  he  said. 

"When?"  she  asked  unconcernedly. 

"  To-morrow.  She  wishes  you  to  spend  the  after- 
noon with  Angele." 

Elsie  turned,  with  quick  animation. 

"  I  don't  care  to  go,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?    You  know  very  little  about  her." 

"  She  seems  to  me — curious." 

"  Well,  I  personally  don't  regard  her  as  a  desirable 
companion  for  you.  But  there  is  no  need  to  give  offense, 
and  it  will  not  hurt  you  to  meet  her  for  an  hour  or  so. 
Your  friend  Martin  is  coming,  too." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  that  makes  a  great  difference." 

Her  father  laughed. 

"  Between  you,  you  will  surely  manage  to  keep  Angele 
out  of  mischief.  And,  now,  my  pet,  what  do  you  say 
to  an  hour  with  La  Fontaine,  while  I  attend  to  some 
correspondence  ?  Where  are  my  pupils  ?  " 

"  They  went  for  a  long  walk.  Mr.  Gregory  said  they 
would  not  be  home  until  dinner-time." 

Next  morning,  for  a  wonder,  the  clouds  broke,  and  an 
autumn  sun  strove  to  cheer  the  scarred  and  drowned 


Undercurrents  233 

earth.  Mrs.  Saumarez  met  her  guests  with  the  unob- 
trusive charm  of  a  skilled  hostess.  Angele,  demure  and 
shrinking,  extended  her  hand  to  Elsie  with  a  shy  civility 
that  was  an  exact  copy  of  Elsie's  own  attitude. 

During  luncheon  she  behaved  so  charmingly  and  spoke 
with  such  sweet  naturalness  when  any  question  was 
addressed  to  her  that  Mr.  Herbert  found  himself  steadily 
recasting  his  unfavorable  opinion. 

The  conversation  steered  clear  of  any  reference  to  the 
inquest.  Mrs.  Saumarez  was  a  widely  read  and  traveled 
woman,  and  versed  in  the  art  of  agreeable  small  talk. 

Once,  in  referring  to  Angele,  she  said  smilingly : 

"  I  have  been  somewhat  selfish  in  keeping  her  with  me 
always.  But,  now,  I  have  decided  that  she  must  go  to 
school.  I'll  winter  in  Brighton,  with  that  object  in 
view." 

"  Will  you  like  that  ?  "  said  the  vicar  to  the  child. 

"I'll  not  like  leaving  mamma;  but  school,  yes.  I 
feel  I  want  to  learn  a  lot.  I  suppose  Elsie  is,  oh,  so 
clever?  " 

She  peeped  at  the  other  girl  under  her  long  eyelashes, 
and  made  pretense  of  being  awe-stricken  by  such 
eminent  scholastic  attainments  in  one  of  her  own 
age. 

"  Elsie  has  learnt  a  good  deal  from  books,  but  you 
have  seen  much  more  of  the  world.  If  you  work  hard, 
you  will  soon  make  up  the  lost  ground." 

"  I'll  try.  I  have  been  trying — all  day  yesterday ! 
Eh,  mamma?  " 

Mrs.  Saumarez  sighed. 

"  I  ought  to  have  engaged  a  governess,"  she  said.  "  I 
cannot  teach.  I  have  no  patience." 


234  The  Revellers 

Mr.  Herbert  did  not  know  that  Angele's  educational 
efforts  of  the  preceding  day  consisted  in  a  smug  decorum 
that  irritated  her  mother  exceedingly.  This  luncheon 
party  had  been  devised  as  a  relief  from  Angele's  bur- 
lesque. She  termed  it  "  jouer  le  bon  enfant." 

After  the  meal  they  strolled  into  the  garden.  The 
storm  had  played  havoc  with  shrubs  and  flowers,  but 
the  graveled  paths  were  dry,  and  the  lawn  was  firm,  if 
somewhat  damp.  Mrs.  Saumarez  had  caused  a  fine 
swing  to  be  erected  beneath  a  spreading  oak.  It  held 
two  cushioned  seats,  and  two  propelling  ropes  were 
attached  to  a  crossbar.  It  made  swinging  a  luxury, 
not  an  exercise. 

"  By  the  way,"  cried  Mrs.  Saumarez  to  the  vicar,  "  do 
you  smoke?  " 

He  pleaded  guilty  to  a  pipe. 

"  Then  you  can  smoke  a  cigar.  Fran9oise  packed  a 
box  among  my  belongings — the  remnants  of  some  for- 
gotten festivity  in  the  Savoy.  Do  try  one.  If  you  like 
it,  may  I  send  you  the  others  ?  " 

The  vicar  discovered  that  the  gift  would  be  costly — 
nearly  forty  Villar  y  Villars,  of  exquisite  flavor. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  giving  me  five  pounds  ?  " 
he  laughed. 

"  I  never  learn  the  price  of  these  things.  I  am  so 
glad  they  are  good.  You  will  enjoy  them." 

"  It  tickles  a  poor  country  vicar  to  hear  you  talk  so 
easily  of  Lucullian  feasts,  Mrs.  Saumarez.  What  must 
the  banquet  have  been,  when  the  cigars  cost  a  half- 
crown  each ! " 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  hard  up.  Colonel  Saumarez  had  only 
his  army  pay,  but  my  estates  lie  near  Hamburg, 


Undercurrents  235 

and  you  know  how  that  port  has  grown  of  recent 
years." 

"  Do  you  never  reside  there  ?  " 

Mrs.  Saumarez  inclined  a  pink-lined  parasol  so  that 
its  reflected  tint  mingled  with  the  rush  of  color  which 
suffused  her  face.  Had  the  worthy  vicar  given  a 
moment's  thought  to  the  matter,  he  would  have  known 
that  his  companion  wished  she  had  bitten  her  tongue 
before  it  wagged  so  freely. 

"  I  prefer  English  society  to  German,"  she  answered, 
after  a  slight  pause. 

Oddly  enough,  this  statement  was  literally  true,  but 
she  dared  not  qualify  it  by  the  explanation  that  an  auto- 
cratic government  exacted  heavy  terms  for  permitting 
her  to  draw  a  large  revenue  from  her  Hamburg 
property. 

Blissfully  unaware  of  treading  on  anyone's  toes,  Mr. 
Herbert  pursued  the  theme. 

"  In  my  spare  hours  I  take  an  interest  in  law,"  he 
said.  "  Your  marriage  made  you  a  British  subject. 
Does  German  law  raise  no  difficulty  as  to  alien  owner- 
ship of  land  and  houses  ?  " 

"  My  family,  the  von  Edelsteins,  have  great  influ- 
ence." 

This  time  the  vicar  awoke  to  the  fact  that  he  might 
be  deemed  unduly  inquisitive.  He  knew  better  than  to 
apologize,  or  even  change  the  subject  abruptly. 

"  Land  tenure  is  a  complex  business  in  old-established 
countries,"  he  went  on.  "  Take  this  village,  for  ex- 
ample. You  may  have  noticed  how  every  garth  runs 
up  the  hillside  in  a  long,  narrow  strip.  Ownership  of 
land  bordering  the  moor  carries  the  right  of  free  graz- 


236  The  Revellers 

ing  for  a  certain  number  of  sheep,  so  every  freeholder 
contrives  to  touch  the  heather  at  some  point." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Mrs.  Saumarez,  promptly  interested, 
"  that  explains  the  peculiar  shape  of  the  Bolland  land 
at  the  back  of  the  White  House.  An  admirable  couple, 
are  they  not?  And  so  medieval  in  their  notions.  I 
attended  what  they  call  a  '  love  feast '  the  other  evening. 
John  Bollard  introduced  me  as  '  Sister  Saumarez.' 
When  he  became  wrapped  up  in  the  service  he  reminded 
me,  or,  rather,  filled  my  ideal,  of  a  high  priest  in  Israel." 

"Was  Eli  Todd  there?" 

"The  preacher?     Yes." 

"  He  is  a  fine  fellow.  Given  to  use  a  spiritual  sledge- 
hammer, perhaps,  but  the  implements  of  the  Lord  are 
many  and  varied.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  gainsay  the 
good  work  done  by  the  dissenting  congregations.  If 
there  were  more  chapels,  there  would  be  more  churches 
in  the  land,  Mrs..  Saumarez." 

They  had  strolled  away  from  the  girls,  and  little  did 
the  vicar  dream  what  deeps  they  had  skirted  in  their 
talk. 

Angele  led  Elsie  to  the  swing. 

"  Try  this,"  she  said.  "  It's  just  lovely  to  feel  the 
air  sizzing  past  your  ears." 

"  I  have  a  swing,"  said  Elsie,  "  but  not  like  this 
one.  It  is  a  single  rope,  with  a  little  crossbar,  which  I 
hold  in  my  hands  and  propel  with  my  feet.  It  is  hard 
work,  I  assure  you." 

"  Grand  Dieu !    So  I  should  think." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Elsie,  "  you  shouldn't  say  that." 

"  Vous  me  faites  rire!    You  speak  French?  " 

"  Yes— a  little." 


Undercurrents  237 

"  How  stupid  of  me  not  to  guess.  I  can  say  what  I 
like  before  Martin  Bolland.  He  is  a  nice  boy — Martin." 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Elsie  shortly. 

She  blushed.  They  were  in  the  swing  now,  and  swoop- 
ing to  and  fro  in  long  rushes.  Angele's  black  eyes  were 
searching  Elsie's  blue  ones.  She  tittered  unpleasantly. 

"  What  makes  you  so  red  when  I  speak  of  Martin  ?  " 
she  demanded. 

"  I  am  not  red — that  is,  I  have  no  reason  to  be." 

"  You  know  him  well?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  Martin  ?  " 

"  Sapristi! — I  beg  your  pardon — who  else?" 

"  I — I  have  only  met  him  twice,  to  speak  to.  I  have 
known  him  by  sight  for  years." 

"  Twice?  The  first  time  when  he  killed  that  thing — 
the  cat.  When  was  the  second  ?  " 

Angele  was  tugging  her  rope  with  greater  energy  than 
might  be  credited  to  one  of  her  slight  frame.  The  swing 
was  traveling  at  a  great  pace.  Her  fierce  gaze  disquieted 
Elsie,  to  whom  this  inquisition  was  irksome. 

"  Let  us  stop  now,"  she  said. 

"  No,  no.  Tell  me  when  next  you  saw  Martin.  I 
must  know." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  he  became  different  in  his  manner  all  at 
once.  One  day  he  kissed  me " 

"  Oh,  you  are  horrid." 

"  I  swear  it.  He  kissed  me  last  Wednesday  after- 
noon. I  did  not  see  him  again  until  Saturday.  Then 
he  was  cold.  He  saw  you  after  Wednesday." 

By  this  time  Elsie's  blood  was  boiling. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  the  blue  in  her  eyes  held  a  hard 


238  The  Revellers 

glint.  "  He  saw  me  on  Wednesday  night.  We  hap- 
pened to  be  standing  at  our  gate.  Frank  Beckett- 
Smythe  passed  on  his  bicycle.  He  was  chased  by  a 
groom — sent  home  to  be  horsewhipped — because  he  was 
coming  to  meet  you." 

"  O  la  la !  "  shrilled  Angele.  "  That  was  nine  o'clock. 
Does  papa  know  ?  " 

Poor  Elsie  crimsoned  to  the  nape  of  her  neck.  She 
wanted  to  cry — to  slap  this  tormentor's  face.  Yet  she 
returned  Angele's  fiery  scrutiny  with  interest. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  with  real  heat.  "  I  told  him  Martin 
came  to  our  house,  but  I  said  nothing  about  Frank — and 
you.  It  was  too  disgraceful." 

She  jerked  viciously  at  her  rope  to  counteract  the 
pull  given  by  Angele.  The  opposing  strains  snapped 
the  crossbar.  Both  ropes  fell,  and  with  them  the  two 
pieces  of  wood.  One  piece  tapped  Angele  somewhat 
sharply  on  the  shoulder,  and  she  uttered  an  involun- 
tary cry. 

The  vicar  and  Mrs.  Saumarez  hurried  up,  but  the 
swing  stopped  gradually.  Obviously,  neither  of  the 
girls  was  injured. 

"You  must  have  been  using  great  force  to  break 
that  stout  bar,"  said  Mr.  Herbert,  helping  Angele  to 
alight. 

"  Yes.  Elsie  and  I  were  pulling  against  each  other. 
But  we  had  a  lovely  time,  didn't  we,  Elsie  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  enjoyed  it  even  more  than  you,"  retorted 
Elsie.  The  elders  attributed  her  excited  demeanor  to 
the  accident. 

"  If  the  ropes  were  tied  to  the  crossbeam,  they  would 
be  safer,  and  almost  as  effective,"  said  the  vicar.  "  Ah ! 


Undercurrents  239 

Here  comes  Martin.  Perhaps  he  can  put  matters 
right" 

"  I  don't  want  to  swing  any  more,"  vowed  Elsie. 

"  But  Martin  will,"  laughed  Angele.  "  We  can  swop 
partners.  That  will  be  jolly,  won't  it?" 

Blissfully  unaware  of  the  thorns  awaiting  him,  the  boy 
advanced.  To  be  candid,  he  was  somewhat  awkward 
in  manner.  He  did  not  know  whether  to  shake  hands 
all  round  or  simply  doff  his  cap  to  the  entire  company. 
Moreover,  he  noted  Elsie's  presence  with  mixed  feelings, 
for  Mrs.  Saumarez's  note  had  merely  invited  him  to  tea. 
There  was  no  mention  of  other  visitors.  He  was  de- 
lighted, yet  suspicious.  Elsie  and  Angele  were  flint 
and  steel.  There  might  be  sparks. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  rescued  him  from  one  horn  of  the 
dilemma.  She  extended  a  hand  and  asked  if  Mr.  Bolland 
were  not  pleased  that  the  rain  had  ceased. 

"  Now,  Martin,"  said  the  vicar  briskly,  "  shin  up  the 
pole  and  tie  the  ropes  to  the  center-piece.  These  strong- 
armed  giantesses  have  smashed  a  chunk  of  timber  as 
thick  as  your  wrist.  Don't  allow  either  of  them  to  hit 
you.  They'll  pulverize  you  at  a  stroke." 

"  I  fear  it  was  I  who  broke  it,"  admitted  Elsie. 

"  Then  it  is  you  he  must  beware  of." 

The  vicar,  in  the  midst  of  this  chaff,  gave  Martin  a 
"  leg-up  "  the  pole,  and  repairs  were  effected. 

When  the  swing  was  in  order  he  slid  to  the  ground. 
Mr.  Herbert  resumed  the  stroll  with  Mrs.  Saumarez. 
There  was  an  awkward  pause  before  Martin  said: 

"  You  girls  get  in.    I'll  start  you." 

He  spoke  collectively,  but  addressed  Elsie.  He  won- 
dered why  her  air  was  so  distant. 


240  The  Revellers 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "  I've  done  damage 
enough  already." 

"  Martin,"  murmured  Angele,  "  she  is  furious  because 
I  said  you  kissed  me." 

This  direct  attack  was  a  crude  blunder.  Mischievous 
and  utterly  unscrupulous  though  the  girl  was,  she  could 
not  measure  this  boy's  real  strength  of  character.  The 
great  man  is  not  daunted  by  great  difficulties — he  grap- 
ples with  them;  and  Martin  had  in  him  the  material  of 
greatness.  He  felt  at  once  that  he  must  now  choose 
irrevocably  between  the  two  girls,  with  a  most  unprom- 
ising chance  of  ever  again  recovering  lost  ground  with 
one  of  them.  He  did  not  hesitate  an  instant. 

"  Did  you  say  that?  "  he  demanded  sternly. 

"Mafoi!    Isn't  it  true?" 

"  The  truth  may  be  an  insult.  You  had  no  right  to 
thrust  your  schemes  into  Elsie's  knowledge." 

"  My  schemes,  you — you  pig.  I  spit  at  you.  Isn't 
it  true?  " 

"  Yes — unfortunately.    I  shall  regret  it  always." 

Angele  nearly  flew  at  him  with  her  nails.  But  she 
contrived  to  laugh  airily. 

"  Eh  bien,  mon  cher  Martin !  There  will  come  another 
time.  I  shall  remember." 

"  There  will  come  no  other  time.  You  dared  me  to  it. 
I  was  stupid  enough  to  forget — for  a  moment." 

"Forget  what?" 

"  That  there  was  a  girl  in  Elmsdale  worth  fifty  of 
you — an  English  girl,  not  a  mongrel !  " 

It  was  a  boyish  retort,  feeble,  unfair,  but  the  most 
cutting  thing  he  could  think  of.  The  words  were  spoken 
in  heat;  he  would  have  recalled  them  at  once  if  that 


Undercurrents  241 

were  possible,  but  Angele  seized  the  opening  with  glee. 

"  That's  you !  "  she  cried,  stabbing  her  rival  with  a 
finger.  "  Parbleu !  I'm  a  mixture,  half  English,  half 
German,  but  really  bad  French !  '* 

"  Please  don't  drag  me  into  your  interesting  conver- 
sation," said  Elsie  with  bitter  politeness. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  said  that,"  put  in  the  boy.  "  I  might 
have  had  two  friends.  Now  I  have  lost  both." 

He  turned.  His  intent  was  to  quit  the  place  forth- 
with. Elsie  caught  his  arm  with  an  alarmed  cry. 

"  Martin,"  she  almost  screamed,  "  look  at  your  left 
hand.  It  is  covered  with  blood !  " 

Surprised  as  she,  he  raised  his  hand.  Blood  was 
streaming  down  the  fingers. 

"  It's  nothing,"  he  said  coolly.  "  I  must  have  opened 
a  deep  cut  by  climbing  the  swing." 

"  Quelle  horreur ! "  exclaimed  Angele.  "  I  hate 
blood!" 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry — "  began  Martin. 

"  Nonsense !  Come  at  once  to  the  kitchen  and  have 
it  bound  up,"  said  Elsie. 

They  hurried  off  together.  Angele  did  not  offer  to 
accompany  them.  Martin  glanced  at  Elsie  through  the 
corner  of  his  eye.  Her  set  mouth  had  relaxed  some- 
what. Anger  was  yielding  to  sympathy. 

"  I  was  fighting  another  wildcat,  so  was  sure  to  get 
scratched,"  he  whispered. 

"  You  needn't  have  kissed  it,  anyhow,"  she  snapped. 

"  That,  certainly,  was  a  mistake,"  he  admitted. 

She  made  no  reply.  Once  within  the  house  she  re- 
moved the  stained  bandage  without  flinching  from  the 
sight  of  half -healed  scars,  one  of  which  was  bleed- 


242  The  Revellers 

ing  profusely.  Cold  water  soon  stopped  the  outflow, 
and  one  of  the  maids  procured  some  strips  of  linen,  with 
which  Elsie  bound  the  wound  tightly. 

They  had  a  moment  to  themselves  in  recrossing  the 
hall.  Martin  ventured  to  touch  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"  Look  here,  Elsie,"  he  said  boldly,  "  do  you  for- 
give me  ?  " 

Something  in  his  voice  told  her  that  mere  verbal 
fencing  would  be  useless. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured  with  a  wistful  smile.  "  I'll 
forgive,  but  I  can't  forget — for  a  long  time." 

On  the  lawn  they  encountered  Mrs.  Saumarez.  Learn- 
ing from  Angele  why  the  trio  had  dispersed  so  suddenly, 
she  was  coming  to  attend  to  Martin  herself. 

The  vicar  joined  them. 

"  Really,"  he  said,  "  some  sort  of  ill  luck  is  attached 
to  that  swing  to-day." 

And  then  Fran9oise  appeared,  to  tell  them  that  tea 
was  ready. 

"  What  curious  French  she  talks,"  commented  the 
smiling  Elsie. 

"Yes,"  cried  Angele  tartly.  "Bad  French,  eh? 
And  I  know  heaps  and  heaps  of  it." 

She  caught  Mr.  Herbert's  eye,  and  added  an  excuse: 

"  I'm  going  to  change  all  that.  People  think  I'm 
naughty  when  I  speak  like  a  domestic.  And  I  really 
don't  mean  anything  wrong." 

"  We  all  use  too  much  slang,"  said  the  tolerant- 
minded  vicar.  "  It  is  sheer  indolence.  We  refuse  to 
bother  our  brains  for  the  right  word." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
TWO  MOORLAND  EPISODES 

THOUGH  all  hands  were  needed  on  the  farm  in  strenu- 
ous endeavor  to  repair  the  storm's  havoc,  Dr.  Mac- 
Gregor  forbade  Martin  to  work  when  he  examined  the 
reopened  cut.  Thus,  the  boy  was  free  to  guide  Fritz, 
the  chauffeur,  on  the  morning  the  man  came  to  look  at 
Bolland's  herd. 

Fritz  Bauer — that  was  the  name  he  gave — had  im- 
proved his  English  pronunciation  marvelously  within  a 
fortnight.  He  no  longer  confused  "  d's  "  and  "  t's." 
He  had  conquered  the  sibilant  sound  of  the  "  s."  He 
was  even  wrestling  with  the  elusive  "  th,"  substituting 
"  d  "  for  "  z." 

"  I  learnt  from  a  book,"  he  explained,  when  Martin 
complimented  him  on  his  mastery  of  English.  "  Dat  is 
goot — no,  good — but  one  trains  de  ear  only  in  de 
country  where  de  people  spik — speak — de  language  all 
de  time." 

The  sharp-witted  boy  soon  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  his  German  friend  was  more  interested  in  the  money 
value  of  the  cattle  as  pedigreed  stock  than  in  the 
"  points  " — such  as  weight,  color,  bone,  level  back,  and 
milking  qualities — which  commended  them  to  the  ex- 
perienced eye.  Bauer  asked  where  he  could  obtain  a 
show  catalogue,  and  jotted  down  the  printer's  address. 
When  they  happened  on  a  team  of  Cleveland  bays,  how- 

243 


'244  The  Revellers 

ever,  Fritz  was  thoroughly  at  home,  and  gratified  his 
hearer  by  displaying  a  horseman's  knowledge  of  a  truly 
superb  animal. 

"  Dey  are  light,  yet  strong,"  he  said,  his  eyes  roving 
from  high-set  withers  to  shapely  hocks  and  clean-cut 
fetlocks.  "  Each  could  pull  a  ton  on  a  bad  road — yes?  " 

Martin  laughed.  He  was  blind  to  the  cynical  smile 
called  forth  by  his  amusement. 

"A  ton?  Two  tons.  Why,  one  day  last  winter, 
when  a  pair  of  Belgians  couldn't  move  a  loaded  lorry 
in  the  deep  snow,  my  father  had  the  man  take  out  both 
of  'em,  and  Prince  walked  away  with  the  lot." 

"  So  ?  "  cried  the  German  admiringly. 

"  But  you  understand  horses,"  went  on  Martin. 
"  Yet  I've  read  that  men  who  drive  motors  don't  care 
for  anything  else,  as  a  rule." 

"  Ah,  dat  reminds  me,"  said  the  other.  "  It  is  a  fine 
day.  Come  wid  me  in  de  machine." 

"  That'll  be  grand,"  said  Martin  elatedly.  "  Can  you 
take  it  out?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Any  time  I — dat  is,  I'll  ask  Mrs.  Sau- 
marez,  and  she  will  permit — yes." 

Quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  chauffeur  was  explaining, 
in  German,  that  he  was  going  into  the  country  for  a 
long  spin,  and  Mrs.  Saumarez  was  listening,  not  con- 
senting. 

"  Going  alone?  "  she  inquired  languidly. 

"  No,  madam,"  he  answered.  "  Martin  Bolland  will 
come  with  me." 

"  Why  not  take  Miss  Angele  ?  " 

The  man  smiled. 

"  I  want  the  boy  to  talk,"  he  explained. 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  245 

Mrs.  Saumarez  nodded.  She  treated  the  matter  with 
indifference.  Not  so  Angele,  who  heard  the  car  purring 
down  the  drive,  and  inquired  Fritz's  errand.  She  was 
furious  when  her  mother  blurted  out  the  news  that 
Martin  would  accompany  Bauer. 

"  Ce  cochon  d'Allemand ! "  she  stormed,  her  long 
lashes  wet  with  vexed  tears.  "  He  has  done  that  pur- 
posely. He  knew  I  wanted  to  go.  But  I'll  get  even 
with  him !  See  if  I  don't." 

"  Angele !  "  and  Mrs.  Saumarez  reddened  with  annoy- 
ance ;  "  if  ever  you  say  a  word  about  such  matters  to 
Fritz  I'll  pack  you  off  to  school  within  the  hour.  I 
mean  it,  so  believe  me." 

Angele  stamped  a  rebellious  foot,  but  curbed  her 
tongue  and  vanished.  She  ran  all  the  way  to  the  village 
and  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  Mercedes  bowling 
smoothly  out  of  sight,  with  Martin  seated  beside  the 
chauffeur.  She  was  so  angry  that  she  stamped  again  in 
rage,  and  Evelyn  Atkinson  came  from  the  inn  to  inquire 
the  cause.  But  Angele  snubbed  her,  bought  some  choc- 
olates from  Mr.  Webster,  and  never  offered  the  other 
girl  a  taste. 

It  happened  that  Martin,  for  his  part,  had  sug- 
gested a  call  at  the  vicarage.  Fritz  vetoed  the  motion 
promptly. 

"  Impossible ! "  he  grinned.  "  I  had  to  dodge  de 
odder  one,  yes." 

Evidently  Fritz  had  kept  both  eyes  and  ears  open. 

They  headed  for  the  moors.  Wise  Martin  had  coun- 
seled a  slow  speed  in  the  village  to  allay  Mrs.  Bolland's 
dread  of  a  new-fangled  device  which  she  "  couldn't 
abide  " ;  but  once  on  the  open  road  the  car  breasted  a 


246  The  Revellers 

steep  hill  at  a  rate  which  the  boy  thought  neck- 
breaking. 

"  Dat  is  nodding,"  said  Fritz  nonchalantly.  "  Twenty 
— twenty-five.  Wait  till  we  are  on  de  level.  Den  I  show 
you  fifty." 

Within  six  minutes  Martin  flew  past  Mrs.  Summers- 
gill's  moor-edge  farm.  Never  before  had  he  reached 
that  point  in  less  than  half  an  hour.  The  stout  party 
was  in  the  porch,  peeling  potatoes  for  the  midday 
meal.  She  lifted  her  hands  in  astonishment  as  her 
young  friend  sped  by.  Martin  waved  a  greeting.  He 
could  almost  hear  her  say: 

"  That  lad  o'  Bolland's  must  ha'  gone  clean  daft. 
I'm  surprised  at  Martha  te  let  him  ride  i'  such  a 
conthraption." 

On  the  hedgeless  road  of  the  undulating  moor,  even 
after  the  ravages  of  the  gale,  fifty  miles  an  hour  was 
practicable  for  long  stretches.  Fritz  was  a  skilled 
driver.  He  seemed  to  have  a  sixth  sense  which  warned 
him  of  rain-gullies,  and  slowed  up  to  avoid  straining 
the  car.  He  began  explaining  the  mechanism,  and  halted 
on  the  highest  point  of  a  far-flung  tableland  to  lift  the 
bonnet  and  show  the  delighted  boy  the  operations  of  the 
Otto  cycle.  In  those  days  the  self-starter  was  unknown, 
but  Martin  found  he  could  start  the  heated  engine  with- 
out any  difficulty.  Fritz  permitted  him  to  drive  slowly, 
and  taught  him  the  use  of  the  brakes.  Finally,  this  most 
agreeable  Teuton  produced  a  packet  of  sandwiches.  He 
was  in  no  hurry  to  return. 

"  Dese  farms,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  low-built  house 
with  tiled  roof,  and  a  cluster  of  stables  and  haymows, 
"  dey  do  not  raise  stock,  eh?  Only  little  sheep?  " 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  247 

"  They  all  keep  milk-cows,  and  bring  butter  to  the 
market,  so  they  often  have  calves  and  yearlings,"  was 
the  ready  answer. 

"And  horses?" 

"  Always  a  couple,  and  a  nag  for  counting  the  sheep." 

"  How  many  sheep?  " 

"  Never  less  than  a  hundred.  Some  flocks  run  to 
three  or  four  hundred." 

"Ah.    Where  are  dey?" 

Martin,  proud  of  his  knowledge,  indicated  the  posi- 
tion and  approximate  distance  of  the  hollows,  invisible 
for  the  most  part,  in  which  lay  the  larger  holdings. 

"  Do  you  understand  a  map  ?  "  inquired  Fritz. 

"  Yes.  I  love  maps.  They  tell  you  everything,  when 
you  can  read  them  properly." 

"  Not  everyding,"  and  the  man  smiled.  "  Some  day 
I  want  to  visit  one  of  dose  big  farms.  Can  you  mark 
a  few?  " 

He  spread  an  Ordnance  map — a  clean  sheet — and 
gave  his  guide  a  pencil.  Soon  Martin  had  dotted  the 
paper  with  accurate  information,  such  as  none  but  one 
reared  in  that  wild  country  could  have  supplied.  He 
was  eager  to  prove  his  familiarity  with  a  map,  and 
followed  each  bend  and  twist  of  the  prehistoric  glacier 
beds,  where  the  lowland  becks  had  their  origin.  He  was 
not  "  showing  off  "  before  a  foreigner.  He  loved  this 
brown  moor  and  was  only  too  pleased  to  have  found  a 
sympathetic  listener. 

"  The  heather  is  losing  its  color  now,"  he  said,  paus- 
ing for  a  moment  in  his  task.  "  You  ought  to  see  it 
early  in  August,  when  it  is  all  one  mass  of  purple 
flowers,  with  here  and  there  a  bunch  of  golden  gorse — 


248  The  Revellers 

*  whin,'  we  call  it.  Our  moor  is  almost  free  from  bog- 
holes,  so  you  can  walk  or  ride  anywhere  with  safety. 
I  have  often  thought  what  a  fine  place  it  would  be  for 
an  army." 

"  Wass  ist  das?  "  cried  Fritz  sharply.  He  corrected 
the  slip  with  a  laugh.  "  An  army?  "  he  went  on,  though 
his  newly  acquired  accent  escaped  him.  "  Vot  woot  an 
army  pe  toing  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  just  a  camp,  you  know.  We  hold  maneuvers 
every  year  in  England." 

"  Yez.  You  coot  pud  all  your  leedle  army  on  dis 
grount.  Bud  dere  iss  von  grade  tefecd.  Dere  iss  no 
water.  A  veil,  in  eej  farm,  yez ;  bud  nod  enough  for  a 
hundret  dousand  men,  und  de  horses  of  four  di- 
visions." 

This  point  of  view  was  novel  to  the  boy.  He  knit 
his  brows. 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  he  confessed.  But, 
wait  a  bit.  There's  far  more  water  here  than  you  would 
imagine.  Stocks  have  to  be  watered,  you  know.  Some 
of  the  farmers  dam  the  becks.  Why,  in  the  Dickenson 
place  over  there,"  and  out  went  a  hand,  "  they  have 
quite  a  large  reservoir,  with  trout  in  it.  You'd  never 
guess  it  existed,  if  you  weren't  told." 

Fritz  nodded.  He  had  turned  against  the  breeze  to 
shield  a  match  for  a  cigarette,  and  his  face  was  hidden. 

"  You  surprise  me,"  he  murmured,  speaking  slowly 
and  with  care  again.  "  And  dere  are  odders,  you  say?  " 

"  Five  that  I  know  of.  Mrs.  Walker,  at  the  Broad 
Ings,  rears  hundreds  of  ducks  on  her  pond." 

Fritz  took  the  map  and  pencil. 

"  You  show  me,"  he  chuckled.     "  I  write  an  essay  on 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  249 

Yorkshire  moor  farms,  and  perhaps  earn  a  new  suit  of 
clo'es,  yes?    Our  Cherman  magazines  print  dose  tings." 

That  same  afternoon  a  party  of  guns  on  a  Scottish 
moor  had  been  shooting  driven  grouse  flying  low  and 
fast  over  the  butts  before  a  strong  wind.  The  sports- 
men, five  in  number,  were  all  experts.  Around  each 
shelter,  with  its  solitary  marksman  and  his  attendant 
loader,  lay  a  deep  crescent  of  game,  every  bird  shot 
cleanly. 

The  last  drive  of  the  day  was  the  most  successful. 
One  man,  whose  bronzed  skin  and  military  bearing  told 
his  profession,  handed  the  empty  12-bore  to  the  gillie 
when  the  line  of  beaters  came  over  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
and  betook  himself,  filling  his  pipe  the  while,  to  a  group 
of  ponies  waiting  on  the  moorland  road  in  the  valley 
beneath. 

He  joined  another,  the  earliest  arrival. 

"  Capital  ground,  this,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know 
whose  lot  is  the  more  enviable,  Heronsdale — yours,  who 
have  the  pains  as  well  as  the  pleasure  of  ownership,  or 
that  of  wandering  vagabonds  like  myself  whom  you 
make  your  guests." 

Lord  Heronsdale  smiled. 

"  You  may  call  yourself  a  wandering  vagabond, 
Grant — the  envy  rests  with  me,"  he  said.  "  It's  all 
very  well  to  have  large  estates,  but  I  feel  like  degenerat- 
ing into  a  sort  of  head  gamekeeper  and  farm  bailiff  com- 
bined. Of  course,  I'm  proud  of  Cairn-corrie,  yet  I  pine 
sometimes  for  the  excitement  of  a  life  that  does  not 
travel  in  grooves." 

The  other  shook  his  head. 


250  The  Revellers 

"  Don't  tempt  fate,"  he  said.  "  My  life  has  been 
spent  among  the  outer  beasts.  It  isn't  worth  it.  For  a 
few  years  of  a  man's  youth,  yes — perhaps.  But  I  am 
forty,  and  I  live  in  a  club.  There,  you  have  my  career 
in  a  nutshell." 

"  There  is  a  fine  kernel  within.  By  Gad !  Grant, 
why  don't  you  pretend  I  meant  that  pun?  I  didn't,  but 
I'll  claim  it  at  dinner.  Gad,  it's  fine !  " 

Colonel  Grant  laughed.  His  mirth  had  a  pleasant, 
wholesome  ring. 

"  If  you  bribe  me  with  as  good  a  berth  to-morrow," 
he  said,  "  I'll  give  you  the  chance  of  throwing  it  off 
spontaneously  during  the  first  lull  in  the  conversation. 
The  best  impromptus  are  always  prepared  beforehand, 
you  know." 

Others  came  up.  The  shooters  mounted,  and  the 
wise  ponies  picked  their  way  with  cautious  celerity  over 
an  uneven  track.  Colonel  Grant  again  found  himself 
riding  beside  his  host. 

"  Tell  you  what,"  said  Lord  Heronsdale  suddenly, 
"  you're  a  bit  of  an  enigma,  Grant." 

"  I  have  often  been  told  that." 

"  Gad,  I  don't  doubt  it.  A  chap  like  you,  with  five 
thousand  a  year,  to  chuck  the  Guards  for  the  Indian 
Staff  Corps,  exchange  town  for  the  Northwest  frontier, 
go  in  for  potting  Afghans  instead  of  running  a  drag  to 
Sandown ;  and,  to  crown  all,  remain  a  bachelor.  I  don't 
understand  it." 

"  Yet,  ten  minutes  ago  you  were  growling  about  the 
monotony  of  existence  at  Cairn-corrie  and  half  a  dozen 
other  places." 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  251 

"  Not  even  a  tu  quoque  like  that  explains  the 
mystery." 

"  Some  day  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  When  the  time 
comes  I  must  ask  Lady  Heronsdale  to  find  me  a  nice 
wife,  with  a  warranty." 

"Gad,  that's  the  job  for  Mollie.  She'll  put  the 
future  Mrs.  Grant  through  her  paces.  You're  not  fly- 
ing off  to  India  again,  then?  " 

"  No.  I  heard  last  week  that  a  post  is  to  be  found 
for  me  in  the  Intelligence  Department." 

"  Capital !    You'll  soon  have  a  K.  before  the  C.  B." 

"  Possibly.  Some  fellows  wear  themselves  to  the  bone 
in  trying  for  those  things.  My  scheming  for  years  has 
been  to  avoid  the  humdrum  of  cantonment  life.  And, 
behold!  I  am  spotted  for  promotion.  I  don't  know 
how  the  deuce  they  ever  heard  of  me  in  Pall  Mall." 

"  Gad !    Don't  you  read  the  papers  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  they  were  full  of  you  last  year. 
That  march  through  the  snow,  pulling  those  guns 
through  the  pass,  the  final  relief  of  the  fort — Gad, 
Molly  has  the  cuttings.  She'll  show  'em  to  you  after 
dinner." 

"  I  sincerely  hope  Lady  Heronsdale  will  do  no  such 
thing.  Why  on  earth  does  she  keep  such  screeds  ?  " 

His  lordship  dropped  his  bantering  air. 

"  Do  you  really  imagine,  Grant,"  he  said  seriously, 
"  that  either  she  or  I  will  ever  forget  what  you  did  for 
Arthur  at  Peshawur?  " 

The  other  man  reddened. 

"  A  mere  schoolboy  episode,"  he  growled. 

"  Yes,  in  a  sense.     Yet  Arthur  told  me  that  he  had 


252  The  Revellers 

a  revolver  in  his  pocket  when  you  met  him  that  night 
at  the  mess  and  persuaded  him  to  leave  the  business  in 
your  hands.  You  saved  our  boy,  Grant.  Gad,  ask 
Mollie  what  she  thinks  !  " 

"  Has  he  been  steady  since?  " 

"A  rock,  my  dear  chap — adamant  where  women  are 
concerned.  His  mother  is  beginning  to  worry  about 
him;  he  wouldn't  look  at  Helen  Forbes,  and  Madge 
Bolingbrooke  'does  her  skirt-dances  in  vain.  Both 
deuced  nice  girls,  too." 

Colonel  Grant  had  navigated  the  talk  into  a  safe 
channel,  and  kept  it  there.  He  never  spoke  of  the 
past. 

At  dinner  a  man  asked  him  if  he  was  reading  the 
Elmsdale  sensation.  He  had  not  even  heard  of  it,  so 
the  tale  of  Betsy  and  George  Pickering,  of  Martin 
Bolland  and  Angele  Saumarez  was  poured  into  his  ears. 

"  I  am  interested,"  said  his  neighbor,  "  because  I  knew 
poor  Pickering.  He  hunted  regularly  with  the  York 
and  Ainsty." 

"  Saumarez !  "  murmured  Colonel  Grant.  "  I  once 
met  a  man  of  that  name.  He  was  shot  on  the  Modder 
River." 

"  This  girl  may  be  his  daughter.  The  paper  de- 
scribes her  mother  as  a  lady  of  independent  means,  visit- 
ing the  moors  for  her  health." 

"  Poor  Saumarez !  From  what  I  remember  of  his 
character,  the  child  must  be  a  chip  of  the  same  block — 
he  was  an  irresponsible  daredevil,  a  terror  among  women. 
But  he  died  gallantly." 

"  There's  a  lot  about  her  in  the  local  paper,  which 
reached  me  this  morning.  Would  you  care  to  see  it?  " 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  253 

"  Newspapers  are  so  inaccurate.  They  never  know 
the  facts." 

Yet  the  colonel,  not  caring  to  play  bridge,  asked  later 
for  the  loan  of  the  journal  named  by  his  informant,  and 
read  therein  the  story  of  the  village  tragedy.  As  fate 
willed  it,  the  writer  was  the  reporter  of  the  Messenger, 
and  his  account  was  replete  with  local  knowledge. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Saumarez  was  the  widow  of  Colonel 
Saumarez,  late  of  the  Hussars.  But — what  was  this? 

"  Martin  Court  Bolland,  a  bright-faced  boy,  of  an 
intelligence  far  greater  than  one  looks  for  in  rustic 
youth,  has  himself  a  somewhat  romantic  history.  He  is 
the  adopted  son  of  the  sturdy  yeoman  whose  name  he 
bears.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bolland  were  called  to  London 
thirteen  years  ago  to  attend  the  funeral  of  the  farmer's 
brother.  One  evening  while  seeing  the  sights  of  the 
great  metropolis  they  found  themselves  in  Ludgate  Hill. 
They  were  passing  the  end  of  St.  Martin's  Court,  when 
a  young  woman  named  Martineau " 

The  colonel  laid  aside  his  cigar  and  twisted  his  body 
sideways,  so  that  the  light  of  the  billiard-room  lamps 
should  fall  clearly  on  the  paper  yet  leave  his  face  in 
the  shade. 

" — a  young  woman  named  Martineau  threw  herself, 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  from  the  fourth  story  of  a 
house  in  the  court,  and  was  killed  by  the  fall.  The 
baby's  frock  was  caught  by  a  projecting  sign,  and  the 
child  hung  perilously  in  air.  John  Bolland,  whose 
strong,  stern  face  reveals  a  character  difficult  to  sur- 
prise, impossible  to  daunt,  jumped  forward  and  caught 
the  tiny  mite  as  it  dropped  a  second  time.  Mrs.  Bol- 
land still  treasures  a  letter  written  by  the  infant's 


254  The  Revellers 

unhappy  mother,  and  prizes  to  the  utmost  the  fine  boy 
whom  she  and  her  husband  adopted  from  that  hour. 
The  old  couple  are  childless,  though  with  Martin  calling 
them  *  father '  and  *  mother,'  they  would  scoff  at  the 
statement.  This,  then,  is  the  well-knit,  fearless  young- 
ster who  fought  the  squire's  son  on  that  eventful  night, 
and  whose  evidence  is  of  the  utmost  importance  in  the 
police  theory  of  crime,  as  opposed  to  accident." 

Colonel  Grant  went  steadily  through  the  neat  sen- 
tences on  which  the  Messenger  correspondent  prided 
himself.  He  was  a  man  of  bronze;  he  showed  no  more 
emotion  than  a  statue,  though  the  facts  staring  from 
the  printed  page  might  well  have  produced  external 
signs  of  the  tempest  which  sprang  into  instant  being 
in  his  soul. 

He  read  each  line  of  descriptive  matter  and  report. 
For  the  sorrows  of  Betsy,  the  final  daring  of  George 
Pickering,  he  had  no  eyes.  It  was  the  boy  he  sought  in 
the  living  record:  the  boy  who  fought  young  Beckett- 
Smythe  to  rescue  the  thoughtless  child — for  so  Angele 
figured  in  the  text;  the  boy  who  repudiated  with  scorn 
the  solicitor's  suggestion  that  he  formed  part  and  parcel 
of  the  crowd  of  urchins  gathered  in  the  hotel  yard ;  the 
farmer's  adopted  son,  who  spoke  so  fearlessly  and  bore 
himself  so  well  that  the  newspaper  noted  his  intelligence, 
his  bright  looks. 

At  last  Colonel  Grant  laid  down  the  sheet  and  lighted 
a  fresh  cigar.  He  smoked  for  a  few  minutes,  watching 
the  pool  players,  and  declining  an  invitation  to  join 
in  the  game.  He  seemed  to  be  planning  some  line  of 
action ;  soon  he  went  to  the  library  and  unrolled  a  large 
scale  map  of  England.  He  found  Nottonby — Elmsdale 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  255 

was  too  small  a  place  to  be  denoted — and,  after  consult- 
ing a  railway  timetable,  wrote  a  long  telegram. 

These  things  accomplished,  he  seized  an  opportunity 
to  tell  Lord  Heronsdale  that  business  of  the  utmost 
importance  would  take  him  away  by  the  first  train  next 
morning. 

Of  course,  his  host  was  voluble  in  protestations,  so 
the  soldier  explained  matters. 

"  You  asked  me  to-day,"  he  said,  "  why  I  turned  my 
back  on  town  thirteen  years  ago.  I  meant  telling  you 
at  a  more  convenient  season.  Will  it  suffice  now  to  say 
that  a  kindred  reason  tears  me  away  from  your  moor?  " 

"  Gad,  I  hope  there  is  nothing  wrong.    Can  I  help  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  by  letting  me  go.  You  will  be  here  until 
October.  May  I  return  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Grant " 

So  they  settled  it  that  way. 

About  three  o'clock  on  the  second  day  after  the 
colonel's  departure  from  Cairn-corrie  he  and  an  elderly 
man  of  unmistakably  legal  appearance  walked  from 
Elmsdale  station  to  the  village.  The  station  master, 
forewarned,  had  procured  a  dogcart  from  the  "  Black 
Lion,"  but  the  visitors  preferred  dispatching  their  port- 
manteaux in  the  vehicle,  and  they  followed  on  foot. 

Thus  it  happened — as  odd  things  do  happen  in  life — 
that  the  two  men  met  a  boy  walking  rapidly  from  the 
village,  and  some  trick  of  expression  in  his  face  caused 
the  colonel  to  halt  him  with  a  question : 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  the  *  Black  Lion  '  inn  is  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  On  the  left,  just  beyond  the  bend  in  the 
road." 

"  And  the  White  House  Farm?  " 


256  The  Revellers 

The  village  youth  looked  at  the  speaker  with  interest. 

"  On  the  right,  sir;  after  you  cross  the  green." 

"Ah!" 

The  two  men  stood  and  stared  at  Martin,  who  was 
dressed  in  a  neat  blue  serge  suit,  obtained  by  post  from 
York,  the  wildcat  having  ruined  its  predecessor.  The 
older  man,  who  reminded  the  boy  of  Mr.  Stockwell,  owing 
to  the  searching  clearness  of  his  gaze,  said  not  a  word ; 
but  the  tall,  sparsely-built  soldier  continued — for  Mar- 
tin civilly  awaited  his  pleasure — 

"  Is  your  name,  by  any  chance,  Martin  Court 
Bolland?" 

The  boy  smiled. 

"  It  is,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  Are  you — can  you — that  is,  if  you  are  not  busy, 
you  might  show  us  the  inn — and  the  farm  ?  " 

The  gentleman  seemed  to  have  a  slight  difficulty  in 
speaking,  and  his  eyes  dwelt  on  Martin  with  a  queer 
look  in  them :  but  the  answer  came  instantly : 

"  I'm  sorry,  sir ;  but  I  am  going  to  the  vicarage  to 
tea,  and  you  cannot  possibly  miss  either  place.  The  inn 
has  a  signpost  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  the  White 
^House  stands  by  itself  on  a  small  bank  about  a  hundred 
and  fifty  yards  farther  down  the  village." 

The  older  gentleman  broke  in : 

"  That  will  be  our  best  course,  Colonel.  We  can 
easily  find  our  way — alone." 

The  hint  in  the  words  was  intended  for  the  ears  that 
understood.  Colonel  Grant  nodded,  yet  was  loath  to  go. 

"  Is  the  vicar  a  friend  of  yours?  "  he  said  to  Martin. 

"  Yes,  sir.    I  like  him  very  much." 

"  Does  a  Mrs.  Saumarez  live  here?  " 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  257 

"  Oh,  yes.     She  is  at  the  vicarage  now,  I  expect." 

"  Indeed.  You  might  tell  her  you  met  a  Colonel 
Grant,  who  knew  her  husband  in  South  Africa.  You 
will  not  forget  the  name,  eh — Grant?" 

"  Of  course  not,  sir." 

Martin  surveyed  the  stranger  with  redoubled  atten- 
tion. A  live  colonel  is  a  rare  sight  in  a  secluded  village. 
The  man,  seizing  any  pretext  to  prolong  the  conversa- 
tion, drew  out  a  pocketbook. 

"  Here  is  my  card,"  he  said.  "  You  need  not  give  it 
to  Mrs.  Saumarez.  She  will  probably  recognize  my 
name." 

The  boy  glanced  at  the  pasteboard.     It  read: 

L  Lieut.-Col.  Reginald  Grant, 
"Indian  Staff  Corps" 

Now,  it  chanced  that  among  Martin's  most  valued 
belongings  was  a  certain  monthly  publication  entitled 
"  Recent  British  Battles,"  and  he  had  read  that  identical 
name  in  the  July  number.  As  was  his  way,  he  remem- 
bered exactly  the  heroic  deeds  with  which  a  gallant 
officer  was  credited,  so  he  asked  somewhat  shyly: 

"  Are  you  Colonel  Grant  of  Aliwal,  sir?  " 

He  pronounced  the  Indian  word  wrongly,  with  a  short 
"  a  "  instead  of  a  long  one,  but  never  did  misplaced 
accent  convey  sweeter  sound  to  man's  ears.  The  soldier 
was  positively  startled. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  cried,  "  how  can  you  possibly 
know  me?  " 

"  Everyone  knows  your  name,  sir.  No  fear  of  me 
forgetting  it  now." 


258  The  Revellers 

The  honest  admiration  in  those  brown  eyes  was  a  new 
form  of  flattery;  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Colonel 
Grant  hungered  for  more. 

"  You  have  astonished  me  more  than  I  can  tell,"  he 
said.  "What  have  you  read  of  the  Aliwal  campaign? 
All  right,  Dobson.  We  are  in  no  hurry."  This  to  his 
companion,  who  ventured  on  a  mild  remonstrance. 

"  I  have  a  book,  sir,  which  tells  you  all  about  Aliwal  " 
—this  time  Martin  pronounced  the  word  correctly;  no 
wonder  the  newspaper  commented  on  his  intelligence — 
"  and  it  has  pictures,  too.  There  is  a  grand  picture  of 
you,  riding  through  the  gate  of  the  fort,  sword  in  hand. 
Do  you  mind  me  saying,  sir,  that  I  am  very  pleased  to 
have  met  you  ?  " 

The  man  averted  his  eyes.  He  dared  not  look  at 
Martin.  He  made  pretense  to  bite  the  end  off  a  cigar. 
He  was  compelled  to  do  something  to  keep  his  lips  from 
trembling. 

"  I  hope  we  shall  meet  often  again,  Martin,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  I'll  tell  you  more  than  the  book  does,  though 
I  have  not  read  it.  Run  off  to  your  friends  at  the 
vicarage.  Good-by ! " 

He  held  out  his  hand,  which  the  boy  shook  diffidently. 
There  was  no  doubt  whatever  in  Martin's  mind  that 
Colonel  Grant  was  an  extraordinarily  nice  gentleman. 

"  My  God,  Dobson !  "  cried  the  soldier,  turning  again 
to  look  after  the  alert  figure  of  the  boy ;  "  I  have  seen 
him,  spoken  to  him — my  own  son!  I  would  know  him 
among  a  million." 

"  He  certainly  bears  a  marked  resemblance  to  your 
own  photograph  at  the  same  age,"  admitted  the  cau- 
tious solicitor. 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  259 

"  And  what  a  fine  youngster !  By  Jove,  did  you  twig 
the  way  he  caught  on  to  the  pronunciation  of  Aliwal?> 
Bless  that  book !  It  shall  be  bound  in  the  rarest  leather, 
though  I  never  rode  through  that  gate — I  ran,  for  dear 
life !  I — I  tell  you  what,  Dobson,  I'd  sooner  do  it  now 
than  face  these  people,  the  Bollands,  and  explain  my 
errand.  I  suppose  they  worship  him." 

"  The  position  differs  from  my  expectations,"  said 
the  solicitor.  "  The  boy  does  not  talk  like  a  farmer's 
son.  And  he  is  going  to  tea  at  the  vicarage  with  a  lady 
of  good  social  position.  Can  the  Bollands  be  of  higher 
grade  than  we  are  led  to  believe?  " 

"  The  newspaper  is  my  only  authority.  Ah,  here  is 
the  *  Black  Lion.'  " 

Mrs.  Atkinson  bustled  forward  to  assure  the  gentle- 
men that  she  could  accommodate  them.  Colonel  Grant 
was  allotted  the  room  in  which  George  Pickering  died! 
It  was  the  best  in  the  hotel.  He  glanced  for  a  moment 
through  the  window  and  took  in  the  scene  of  the  tragedy. 

"  That  must  be  where  the  two  young  imps  fought," 
he  murmured,  with  a  smile,  as  he  looked  into  the  yard. 
"  Gad !  as  Heronsdale  says,  I'd  like  to  have  seen  the 
battle.  And  my  boy  whipped  the  other  chap,  who  was 
bigger  and  older,  the  paper  said." 

Soon  the  two  men  were  climbing  the  slight  acclivity 
on  which  stood  the  White  House.  The  door  stood  hos- 
pitably open,  as  was  ever  the  case  about  tea-time  in  fine 
weather.  In  the  front  kitchen  was  Martha,  alone. 

The  colonel  advanced. 

"  Is  Mr.  Bolland  at  home?  "  he  asked,  raising  his  hat. 

"  Noa,  sir ;  he  isn't.  But  he's  on'y  i'  t'  cow-byre.  If 
it's  owt  important " 


260  The  Revellers 

He  followed  her  meaning  sufficiently. 

"  Will  you  oblige  me  by  sending  for  him  ?  And — er — 
is  Mrs.  Holland  here?  " 

"  I'm  Mrs.  Bolland,  sir." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Of  course,  I  did  not  know 
you." 

He  thought  he  would  find  a  much  younger  woman. 
Martha,  in  the  close-fitting  sunbonnet,  with  its  wide 
flaps,  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  her  outer  skirt  pinned 
behind  to  keep  it  clear  of  the  dirt  during  unceasing 
visits  to  dairy  and  hen-roosts,  looked  even  older  than  she 
was,  her  real  age  being  fifty-five. 

"Will  you  kindly  be  seated,  gentlemen?"  she  said. 
She  was  sure  they  were  county  folk  come  about  the 
stock.  Her  husband's  growing  reputation  as  a  breeder 
of  prize  cattle  brought  such  visitors  occasionally.  She 
wondered  why  the  taller  stranger  asked  for  her,  but  he 
said  no  more,  taking  a  chair  in  silence. 

She  dispatched  a  maid  to  summon  the  master. 

"  Hev  ye  coom  far  ?  "  she  asked  bluntly. 

Colonel  Grant  looked  around.  His  eyes  were  search- 
ing the  roomy  kitchen  for  tokens  of  its  occupants'  ways. 

"  We  traveled  from  Darlington  to  Elmsdale,"  he  said, 
"  and  walked  here  from  the  station." 

"  My  goodness,  ye'll  be  fair  famished.  Hev  summat 
te  eat.  There's  plenty  o'  tea  an'  cakes ;  an'  if  ye'd  fancy 
some  ham  an'  eggs " 

"  Pray  do  not  trouble,  Mrs.  Bolland,"  said  the  colonel 
when  he  had  grasped  the  full  extent  of  the  invitation. 
"  We  wish  to  have  a  brief  talk  with  you  and  your  hus- 
band. Afterwards,  if  you  ask  us,  we  shall  be  most 
pleased  to  accept  your  hospitality." 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  261 

He  spoke  so  genially,  with  such  utter  absence  of  affec- 
tation, that  Martha  rather  liked  him.  Yet,  what  could 
she  have  to  do  with  the  business  in  hand  ?  Anyhow,  here 
came  John,  crossing  the  road  with  heavy  strides. 

The  farmer  paused  just  within  the  threshold.  His 
huge  frame  filled  the  doorway.  He  wore  spectacles  for 
reading  only,  and  his  deep-sunken  eyes  rested  steadily, 
first  on  Colonel  Grant,  then  on  the  solicitor.  Then  they 
went  back  to  the  colonel  and  did  not  leave  him  again. 

"  Good  day,  gentlemen,"  he  said.  "  What  can  I  dea 
for  ye?" 

The  man  who  stormed  forts  on  horseback — in  pic- 
tures— quailed  at  the  task  before  him.  He  nodded  to 
the  solicitor. 

"  Dobson,"  he  said,  "  you  know  all  the  circumstances. 
Oblige  me  by  stating  them  fully." 

The  solicitor,  who  seemed  to  expect  this  request,  pro- 
duced a  bulky  packet  of  papers  and  photographs.  He 
prefaced  his  explanation  by  giving  his  companion's 
name  and  rank,  and  introduced  himself  as  a  member  of 
the  firm  of  Dobson,  Son  and  Smith,  Solicitors,  of  Lin- 
coln's Inn  Fields. 

"  Fifteen  years  ago,"  he  went  on,  "  Colonel  Grant 
was  a  subaltern,  a  junior  officer,  in  the  Guards,  stationed 
in  London.  A  slight  accident  one  day  outside  a  railway 
station  led  him  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  young 
lady.  She  was  hurrying  to  catch  a  train,  when  she  was 
knocked  down  by  a  frightened  horse,  and  might  have 
been  injured  seriously  were  it  not  for  Lieutenant  Grant's 
prompt  assistance.  He  escorted  her  to  her  lodgings,  and 
discovered  that  she  was  what  is  known  in  London  as  6. 
daily  governess — in  other  words,  a  poor,  well-educated 


262  The  Revellers 

woman  striving  to  earn  a  respectable  living.  The  horse 
had  trampled  on  her  foot,  and  she  required  proper 
attention  and  rest;  a  brief  interview  with  her  landlady 
enabled  Mr.  Grant  to  make  the  requisite  arrangements, 
unknown  to  the  young  lady  herself.  He  called  a  week 
later  and  found  that  she  was  quite  recovered.  She  was 
a  very  beautiful  girl,  of  a  lively  disposition,  only  twenty 
years  of  age,  and  working  hard  in  her  spare  time  to 
perfect  herself  as  a  musician.  She  had  no  idea  of  the 
social  rank  of  her  new  friend,  or  perhaps  matters  might 
have  turned  out  differently.  As  it  was,  they  met  fre- 
quently, became  engaged,  and  were  married.  I  have 
here  a  copy  of  the  marriage  certificate." 

He  selected  a  long,  narrow  strip  of  blue  paper  from 
the  documents  he  had  placed  before  him  on  the  kitchen 
table.  He  opened  it  and  offered  it  to  Bolland,  as  though 
he  wished  the  farmer  to  examine  it.  John  did  not  move. 
He  was  still  looking  intently  at  Colonel  Grant. 

Martha,  all  a-flutter,  with  an  indefinite  anxiety  wrin- 
kling the  corners  of  her  eyes,  said  quickly : 
"  What  might  t'  young  leddy's  neam  be,  sir  ?  " 
"  Margaret  Ingram.     She  was  of  a  Gloucestershire 
family,  but  her  parents  were  dead,  and  she  had  no  near 
relatives." 

Martha  cried,  somewhat  tartly: 
"  An'  what  hez  all  this  te  dea  wi'  us,  sir?  " 
"  Let  be,  wife.     Bide  i'  patience.     T'  gentleman  will 
tell  us,  nea  doot." 

John's  voice  was  hard,  almost  dissonant.  The  solic- 
itor gave  him  a  rapid  glance.  That  harsh  tone  boded 
ill  for  the  smooth  accomplishment  of  his  mission. 
Martha  wondered  why  her  husband  gazed  so  fixedly  at 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  263 

the  other  man  who  spoke  not.  But  she  toyed  nervously 
with  her  apron  and  held  her  peace.  Mr.  Dobson 
resumed : 

"  The  young  couple  could  not  start  housekeeping 
openly.  Lieutenant  Grant  depended  solely  on  the  allow- 
ance made  to  him  by  his  father,  whose  ideas  of  family 
pride  were  so  extreme  that  such  a  marriage  must  unques- 
tionably have  led  to  a  rupture.  Moreover,  a  campaign 
in  northern  India  was  then  threatening.  It  broke  out 
exactly  a  year  and  two  months  after  the  marriage. 
Mr.  Grant's  regiment  was  ordered  to  the  front,  and 
when  he  sailed  from  Southampton  he  left  his  young  wife 
and  an  infant,  a  boy,  four  months  old,  installed  in  a 
comfortable  flat  in  Clarges  Street,  Piccadilly.  It  is 
important  that  the  exact  position  of  family  affairs  at 
this  moment  should  be  realized.  General  Grant,  father 
of  the  young  officer,  had  suffered  from  an  apopletic 
stroke  soon  after  his  son's  marriage,  and  to  acquaint 
him  with  it  now  meant  risking  his  life.  Young  Grant's 
action  was  known  to  and  approved  by  several  trust- 
worthy friends.  He  and  his  wife  were  very  happy,  and 
Mrs.  Grant  was  correspondingly  depressed  when  the 
exigencies  of  the  national  service  took  her  husband 
away  from  her.  The  parting  between  the  young  couple 
was  a  bitter  trial,  rendered  all  the  more  heartrending  by 
reason  of  the  concealment  they  had  practiced.  How- 
ever, as  matters  had  been  allowed  to  drift  thus  far,  no 
one  will  pretend  that  there  was  any  special  need  to 
worry  General  Grant  at  the  moment  of  his  son's  de- 
parture for  a  campaign.  Lieutenant  Grant  hoped  to 
return  with  a  step  in  rank.  Then,  whatever  the  conse- 
quences, there  must  be  a  full  explanation.  He  had  not 


264  The  Revellers 

a  great  deal  of  money,  but  sufficient  for  his  wife's  needs. 
He  left  her  two  hundred  pounds  in  notes  and  gold,  and 
his  bankers  were  empowered  to  pay  her  fifty  pounds 
monthly.  His  own  allowance  from  General  Grant  was 
seventy-five  pounds  a  month,  and  it  was  with  great  diffi- 
culty that  he  maintained  his  position  in  such  an  expen- 
sive regiment  as  the  Guards.  The  campaign  eased  the 
pressure,  or  he  could  not  have  kept  it  up  for  long." 

"  Are  all  these  details  quite  necessary,  Dobson?  "  said 
the  colonel,  for  the  steady  glare  of  the  farmer,  the  grow- 
ing pallor  of  poor  Martha,  around  whose  heart  an  icy 
hand  was  taking  sure  grip,  were  exceedingly  irk- 
some. 

"  They  are  if  I  am  to  do  you  justice,"  replied  the 
lawyer. 

"  Never  mind  me.  Tell  them  of  Margaret — and  the 
boy." 

"  I  will  pass  over  the  verification  of  my  state- 
ment," went  on  Mr.  Dobson,  bending  over  the  folded 
papers.  "  Seven  months  passed.  Mrs.  Grant  ex- 
pected soon  to  be  delivered  of  another  child.  She 
heard  regularly  from  her  husband.  His  regiment  was  in 
the  Khyber  Pass,  when  one  evening  she  was  robbed  of 
her  small  store  of  jewelry  and  a  considerable  sum  of 
money  by  a  trusted  servant.  The  theft  was  reported 
in  the  papers,  and  General  Grant  read  of  his  son's  wife 
being  a  resident  in  Clarges  Street.  He  went  to  the  flat 
next  day,  saw  the  poor  girl,  behaved  in  a  way  that  can 
only  be  ascribed  to  the  folly  of  an  old  man  broken  by 
disease,  and  cut  off  supplies  at  once.  Within  a  week 
Mrs.  Grant  found  herself  in  poverty,  and  her  husband 
at  least  a  month's  post  distant.  She  did  not  lose  her 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  265 

wits.  She  sold  her  furniture  and  raised  money  enough 
to  support  herself  and  her  baby  boy  for  some  time.  Of 
course,  she  was  very  much  distressed,  as  General  Grant 
wrote  to  her,  called  her  an  adventuress,  and  stated  that 
he  had  disinherited  his  son  on  her  account.  This  was 
only  partly  true.  He  tore  up  one  will,  but  made  no 
other,  and  forgot  that  there  was  a  second  copy  in  pos- 
session of  my  firm.  Mrs.  Grant  then  did  a  foolish  thing. 
She  concealed  her  troubles  from  her  husband's  friends, 
who  would  have  helped  her.  She  took  cheap  lodgings 
in  another  part  of  London,  and  changed  her  name. 
This  seems  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  General 
Grant,  in  his  insane  suspicions,  set  private  detectives  to 
watch  her.  Moreover,  the  bankers  wrote  her  a  curt  let- 
ter which  added  to  her  miseries.  She  rented  rooms  in 
St.  Martin's  Court,  Ludgate  Hill,  and  gave  her  name 
as  Mrs.  Martineau." 

Martha  sprang  at  the  solicitor  with  an  eerie  screech : 

"  Hev  ye  coom  to  steal  oor  bairn,  the  bonny  lad  we've 
reared  i'  infancy  an'  childhood?  Leave  this  house! 
John — husband — will  ye  let  'em  drive  me  mad?  " 

John  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Martha,"  he  said,  with  a  break  in  his  voice  that 
shook  his  hearers  and  stilled  his  wife's  cries ;  "  dinnat 
mak'  oor  burthen  harder  te  bear.  A  man's  heart  deviseth 
his  way,  but  the  Lord  directeth  his  steps ! " 

Servants,  men  and  women,  came  running  at  their  mis- 
tress's scream  of  terror.  They  stood,  abashed,  in  the 
kitchen  passage.  None  paid  heed  to  them. 

Colonel  Grant  rose  and  approached  the  trembling 
woman  cowering  at  her  husband's  side.  Her  old  eyes 
were  streaming  now;  she  gazed  at  him  with  the  pitiful 


266  The  Revellers 

anguish  of  a  stricken  animal.  He  took  her  wrinkled 
hand  and  bent  low  before  her. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  God  forbid  that  my  son  should 
lose  his  mother  a  second  time !  " 

He  could  say  no  other  word.  Even  in  her  agony, 
Martha  felt  hot  tears  falling  on  her  bare  arm,  and  they 
were  not  her  own. 

"  Eh,  but  it's  a  sad  errand  ye're  on,"  she  sobbed. 

"  Wife,  wife !  "  cried  John  huskily,  "  if  thou  faint  in 
the  day  of  adversity  thy  strength  is  small.  Colonel 
Grant  is  a  true  man.  It's  in  his  feace.  He  wean't  rive 
Martin  frae  yer  arms,  an'  no  man  can  tak'  him  frae  yer 
heart." 

Colonel  Grant  drew  himself  up.  He  caught  Bolland's 
shoulder. 

"  Bear  with  me,"  he  said.  "  I  have  suffered  much. 
I  lost  my  wife  and  two  children,  one  unborn.  They 
were  torn  from  me  as  though  by  a  destroying  tempest. 
One  is  given  back,  after  thirteen  long  years  of  mourning. 
Can  you  not  spare  me  a  place  in  his  affections  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,"  growled  John.  "  We're  nobbut  owd  folk 
at  t'  best,  an'  t'  lad  was  leavin'  oor  roof  for  school  in- 
a  little  while.  We  can  sattle  things  like  sensible  people, 
if  on'y  Martha  here  will  gie  ower  greetin'.  It  troubles 
me  sair  to  hear  her  lamentin'.  We've  had  no  sike  deed 
i'  thirty-fower  years  o'  married  life." 

The  man  was  covering  his  own  distress  by  solicitude 
in  his  wife's  behalf.  She  knew  it.  She  wiped  her  eyes 
defiantly  with  her  apron  and  made  pretense  to  smile, 
though  she  had  received  a  shock  she  would  remember  to 
her  dying  day.  Some  outlet  was  necessary  for  her  sur- 
charged feelings.  She  whisked  around  on  the  crowd  of 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  267 

amazed  domestics,  dairymaids  and  farmhands,  pressing 
on  each  other's  heels  in  the  passage. 

"  What  are  ye  gapin'  at  ?  "  she  cried  shrilly.  "  Is 
there  nowt  te  dea?  If  tea's  overed,  git  on  wi'  yer  work, 
an'  be  sharp  aboot  it,  or  I'll  side  ye  quick !  " 

The  stampede  that  followed  relieved  the  situation. 
The  servants  faded  away  under  her  fiery  glance.  Colonel 
Grant  smiled. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see,"  he  said,  "  that  you  maintain  dis- 
cipline in  your  regiment." 

"  They're  all  ears  an'  nea  brains,"  she  said.  "  My, 
but  I'm  that  upset  I  hardly  ken  what  I'm  sayin'.  Mebbe 
ye'll  finish  yer  tale,  sir.  I'm  grieved  I  med  sike  a  dash 
at  ye,  but  I  couldn't  bide " 

"  There,  there,"  said  John,  with  his  gruff  soothing, 
"  sit  ye  doon  an'  listen  quietly.  I  guessed  their  business 
t'  first  minnit  I  set  eyes  on  t'  colonel.  Why,  Martha, 
look  at  him.  He  hez  Martin's  eyes  and  Martin's  mouth. 
Noo,  ye'd  hev  dark-brown  hair,  I  reckon,  when  ye  were 
a  lad,  sir?  " 

For  answer,  Colonel  Grant  stooped  to  the  lawyer's 
papers  and  took  from  them  a  framed  miniature. 

"  That  is  my  portrait  at  the  age  of  twelve,"  he  said, 
placing  it  before  them. 

"Eh,  but  that  caps  owt!"  cried  Martha.  "It's 
Martin  hissel!  Oh,  my  honey,  how  little  did  I  think 
what  was  coomin'  when  I  set  yer  shirt  an'  collar  ready, 
an'  med  ye  tidy  te  gan  te  tea  wi'  t'  fine  folk  at  t'  vicar- 
age. An'  noo  ye're  a  better  bred  'un  than  ony  of  'em. 
The  Lord  love  ye!  Here  ye  are,  smilin'  at  me.  They 
may  mak'  ye  a  colonel  or  a  gin'ral,  for  owt  I  care :  ye'll 
nivver  forgit  yer  poor  old  muther,  will  ye,  my  bairn ! " 


268  The  Revellers 

She  kissed  the  miniature  as  if  it  were  Martin's  own 
presentment.  The  men  left  her  to  sob  again  in  silence. 
Soon  she  calmed  herself  sufficiently  to  ask : 

"  But  why  i'  t'  wulld  did  that  poor  lass  throw  herself 
an'  her  little  'un  inte  t'  street?  " 

Mr.  Dobson  took  up  his  story  once  more: 

"  She  explained  her  action  in  a  pathetic  letter  to  her 
husband.  She  was  ill,  lonely,  and  poverty-stricken. 
She  brooded  for  days  on  General  Grant's  cruel  words 
and  still  more  cruel  letter.  They  led  her  to  believe  that 
she  was  the  unwitting  cause  of  her  husband's  ruin.  She 
resolved  to  free  him  absolutely  and  at  the  same  time  pre- 
serve his  name  from  notoriety.  Therefore  she  wrote 
him  a  full  account  of  her  change  of  name,  and  told  him 
that  her  children  would  die  with  her." 

"  That  was  a  mad  thing  te  dea." 

"  Exactly.  The  doctor  who  knew  her  best  told  her 
husband  six  months  later  that  Mrs.  Grant  was,  in  his 
opinion,  suffering  from  an  unrecognized  attack  of  puer- 
peral fever.  It  was  latent  in  her  system,  and  developed 
with  the  trouble  so  suddenly  brought  upon  her." 

"  Yon  was  a  wicked  owd  man " 

"  The  general  was  called  to  account  by  a  higher 
power.  Mrs.  Grant  wrote  him  also  a  statement  of  her 
intentions.  Next  morning  he  read  of  her  death,  and  a 
second  attack  of  apoplexy  proved  fatal.  Her  letter  did 
not  reach  her  husband  until  after  a  battle  in  which  he 
was  wounded.  He  cabled  to  us,  and  we  made  every  in- 
quiry, but  it  was  remarkable  how  chance  baffled  our 
efforts.  In  the  first  instance,  the  policeman  whom  you 
encountered  in  Ludgate  Hill  and  who  knew  you  had 
adopted  the  child,  had  left  the  force  and  emigrated,. 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  269 

owing  to  some  unfortunate  love  affair.  In  the  second, 
several  newspapers  reported  the  child  as  dead,  though 
the  records  of  the  inquest  soon  corrected  that  error. 
Thirdly,  someone  named  Bolland  died  in  the  hotel  where 
you  stayed  and  was  buried  at  Highgate " 

"  My  brother,"  put  in  John. 

"  Yes ;  we  know  now.  But  conceive  the  barrier  thus 
placed  in  our  path  when  the  dates  of,  the  two  events 
were  compared  long  afterwards." 

The  farmer  looked  puzzled.    The  solicitor  went  on : 

"  Of  course,  you  wonder  why  there  should  have  been 
any  delay,  but  the  Coroner's  notes  were  lost  in  a  fire. 
Nevertheless,  we  advertised  in  dozens  of  newspapers." 

"  We  hardly  ever  see  a  paper,  sir,"  said  Martha. 

"  Yet,  the  wonder  is  that  some  of  your  friends  did  not 
see  it  and  tell  you.  Finally,  a  sharp-witted  clerk  of  ours 
solved  the  Highgate  Cemetery  mystery,  and  the  adver- 
tisements were  repeated.  Colonel  Grant  was  back  in 
India  by  that  time  trying  hard  to  leave  his  bones  there, 
by  all  accounts,  and  perhaps  we  did  not  spend  as  much 
money  on  this  second  quest  as  if  he  were  at  home  to 
authorize  the  expenditure." 

"  When  was  that,  sir — t'  second  lot  o'  advertisements, 
I  mean  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  Quite  a  year  after  Mrs.  Grant's  death." 

Bolland  stroked  his  chin  thoughtfully. 

"  I  remember,"  he  said,  "  a  man  at  Malton  fair 
sayin'  summat  aboot  an  inquiry  for  me.  But  yan  o'  t' 
hands  rode  twenty  miles  across  counthry  te  tell  me  that 
Martin  had  gotten  t'  measles,  an'  I  kem  yam  that  neet." 

"  Naturally,  I  can  give  you  every  proof  of  my  state- 
ments," said  Mr.  Dobson.  "  They  are  all  here " 


270  The  Revellers 

"  Mebbe  ye'll  know  this  writin',"  interrupted  Martha, 
laying  down  the  miniature  for  the  first  time.  She  un- 
locked a  drawer,  took  out  a  small  tin  box,  and  from  its 
depths  produced,  among  other  articles,  a  crumbling  sheet 
of  note  paper.  On  it  was  written : 

"  My  name  is  not  Martineau.  I  have  killed  myself 
and  my  boy.  If  he  dies  with  his  unhappy  mother  he 
will  never  know  the  miseries  of  this  life." 

It  was  unsigned,  undated,  a  hurried  scrawl  in  faded 
ink. 

"  Margaret's  handwriting,"  said  Colonel  Grant, 
looking  at  the  pathetic  message  with  sorrow-laden 
eyes. 

"  It  was  found  on  t'  poor  leddy's  dressin'-table, 
fastened  wi'  a  hatpin.  An'  these  are  t'  clothes  Martin 
wore  when  he  fell  into  John's  arms.  Nay,  sir,"  she 
added,  as  Colonel  Grant  began  examining  the  little 
frock,  "  she  took  good  care,  poor  thing,  that  neabody 
should  find  oot  whea  she  was.  Ivvery  mark  hez  bin 
picked  off." 

"  Martin  is  his  feyther's  son,  or  I  ken  nowt  aboot 
stock,"  cried  John  Bolland,  making  a  fine  effort  to 
dispel  the  depression  which  again  possessed  the  little 
gathering  at  sight  of  these  mournful  mementoes  of  the 
dead  past.  "  Coom,  gentlemen,  sit  ye  doon  an'  hev 
some  tea.  Ye'll  not  be  for  takkin'  Martin  away  by  t' 
next  train.  Martha,  what's  t'  matter  wi'  ye?  I've 
nivver  known  folk  be  so  lang  i'  t'  hoose  afore  an'  not  be 
asked  if  they  had  a  mooth." 

"  Ye're  on  t'  wrang  gait  this  time,  John,"  she  re- 
torted.  "  I  axed  'em  afore  ye  kem  in.  By  this  time, 


Two  Moorland  Episodes  271 

sure-ly,  ye'll  be  wantin'  soom  ham  an'  eggs  ?  "  she  added 
to  the  visitors. 

"  By  Jove !  I  believe  I  could  eat  some,"  laughed  the 
colonel. 

Martha  smiled  once  more.  She  liked  Martin's  father. 
Each  moment  the  first  favorable  impression  was  deepen- 
ing. She  was  on  the  point  of  bustling  away  to  the  back 
kitchen,  when  they  all  heard  the  patter  of  feet,  in  des- 
perate haste,  approaching  the  front  door.  Elsie  Her- 
bert dashed  in.  She  was  hatless.  Her  long  brown  hair 
was  floating  in  confusion  over  her  shoulders  and  down 
her  back.  She  was  crying  in  great  gulps  and  gasping 
for  breath. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Bolland!"  she  wailed.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Bol- 
land! — what  shall  I  say?  Martin  is  hurt.  He  fell  off 
the  swing.  Angele  did  it!  I'll  kill  her!  I'll  tear  her 
face  with  my  hands !  Oh,  come,  someone,  and  help 
father.  He  is  trying  to  bring  back  Martin's  senses. 
What  shall  I  do? — it  was  all  on  my  account.  Oh,  dear! 
Oh,  dear!" 

And  she  sank  fainting  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  SEVEN  FULL  YEARS 

BUT  Martin  was  not  dead,  nor  even  seriously  injured. 
At  first,  the  affair  looked  so  ugly — its  main  features 
were  so  incomprehensible — that  Mr.  Herbert  was 
startled  into  somewhat  panic-stricken  action.  Here 
was  Martin  lying  unconscious  on  the  ground,  with  Elsie 
kneeling  by  his  side,  passionately  beseeching  him  in  one 
breath  to  speak  to  her,  and  in  the  next  accusing  Angele 
Saumarez  of  murder. 

The  vicar  was  not  blameworthy,  in  that  he  failed  to 
grasp  either  the  nature  of  the  accusation  or  its  seeming 
unreasonableness. 

The  single  rope  of  the  gymnastic  swing  erected  in 
the  garden  for  Elsie's  benefit  had  been  cut  deliberately 
with  a  sharp  knife  a  few  inches  above  the  small  bar  on 
which  the  user's  weight  was  supported  by  both  hands. 
Of  the  cutting  there  could  be  no  manner  of  doubt.  The 
jagged  edges  of  the  few  strands  left  by  a  devilish  inge- 
nuity— so  that  the  swing  must  need  be  in  violent  motion 
before  the  rope  snapped — were  clearly  visible  at  the 
point  of  severance.  But  who  had  done  this  thing,  and 
with  what  deadly  object  in  view?  And  why  did  Elsie 
pitch  on  Angele  Saumarez  so  readily,  glaring  at  her 
with  such  eyes  of  vengeance  that  the  vicar  was  con- 
strained to  order,  with  the  utmost  sternness  of  which  he 

272 


The  Seven  Full  Years  273 

was  capable,  that  the  torrent  of  words  should  cease. 
Indeed,  he  dispatched  her  to  acquaint  the  Bollands  with 
tidings  of  the  disaster  as  a  haphazard  pretext  to  get 
her  out  of  the  way.  Apart  from  sensing  the  accident's 
inexplicable  motive,  its  history  was  simple  enough. 

Before  tea  was  served,  Martin  and  Elsie  were  using 
the  swing  alternately,  vying  with  each  other  in  the  effort 
to  touch  with  their  toes  the  leaves  of  a  tree  nearly  twenty 
feet  distant  from  the  vertical  line  of  the  rope.  Angele, 
of  course,  took  no  part  in  this  contest;  she  contented 
herself  with  a  sarcastic  incredulity  when  Elsie  vowed 
that  she  had  accomplished  the  feat  twice  already. 

Martin,  stronger,  but  less  skilled  in  the  trick  of  the 
swing  than  the  girl,  strove  hard  to  excel  her.  Yet  he, 
too,  fell  short  by  a  few  inches  time  after  time.  At  last, 
Elsie  vowed  that  when  she  was  rested  after  tea  she 
would  prove  her  words,  and  threw  a  pebble  at  the  branch 
which  she  claimed  to  have  reached  a  week  ago. 

Neither  Mrs.  Saumarez  nor  the  vicar  attached  any 
weight  to  the  somewhat  emphatic  argument  between  the 
two  girls.  It  was  a  splendid  contest  between  Mar- 
tin and  Elsie.  It  interested  the  elders  for  conflicting 
reasons. 

To  see  the  graceful  girl  propelling  herself  through 
the  air  in  a  curve  of  nearly  forty  feet  at  each  pendulum 
stroke  of  the  swing  was  a  pleasing  sight  to  her  father, 
but  it  caused  Mrs.  Saumarez  to  regret  again  that  her 
daughter  had  not  been  taught  to  think  more  of  athletic 
exercises  and  less  of  dress. 

While  the  young  people  were  following  their  seniors 
to  the  drawing-room,  Angele  said  to  Elsie : 

"  I  think  I  could  do  that  myself  with  a  little  practice." 


274  The  Revellers 

"  You  are  not  tall  enough,"  was  the  uncompromising 
answer,  for  Elsie's  temper  was  ruffled  by  the  simpering 
unbelief  with  which  the  other  treated  her  assurances. 

"  Not  so  tall,  no ;  but  I  can  bend  back  like  this,  and 
you  cannot." 

Without  a  second's  hesitation  Angele  twisted  her  head 
and  shoulders  around  until  her  chin  was  in  a  line  with 
her  heels.  Then  she  dropped  lightly  so  that  her  hands 
rested  on  the  grass  of  the  lawn,  straightening  herself 
with  equal  ease.  The  contortion  was  performed  so 
quickly  that  neither  Mr.  Herbert  nor  Mrs.  Saumarez 
was  aware  of  it.  It  was  a  display  not  suited  to  the  con- 
ditions of  ordinary  costume,  and  it  necessarily  exhibited 
portions  of  the  attire  not  usually  in  evidence. 

Martin  had  eyes  only  for  the  girl's  acrobatic  agility, 
but  Elsie  blushed. 

"  I  don't  like  that,"  she  said. 

"  I  can  stand  on  my  head  and  walk  on  my  hands," 
cried  Angele  instantly.  "  Martin,  some  day  I'll  show 
you." 

Conscious  though  she  was  that  these  things  were  said 
to  annoy  her,  Elsie  remembered  that  Angele  was  a 
guest. 

"  How  did  you  learn  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Were  you 
taught  in  school?  " 

"  School !  Me !  I  have  never  been  to  school.  Edu- 
cation is  the  curse  of  children's  lives.  I  never  leave 
mamma.  One  day  in  Nice  I  saw  a  circus  girl  doing 
tricks  of  that  sort.  I  practiced  in  my  bedroom." 

"  Does  your  mother  wish  that?  " 

"  She  doesn't  know." 

"  I  wonder  you  haven't  broken  your  neck,"  said  the 


The  Seven  Full  Years  275 

practical  Martin,  who  felt  his  bones  creaking  at  the 
mere  notion  of  such  twisting. 

Angele  laughed. 

"  It  is  quite  easy,  when  you  are  slim  and  elegant." 

Her  vanity  amused  the  boy. 

"  You  speak  as  though  Elsie  were  as  stiff  as  a  board," 
he  said.  "  If  you  had  watched  her  carefully,  Angele,  you 
would  have  seen  that  she  is  quite  as  supple  as  you,  only 
in  a  different  way.  And  she  is  strong,  too.  I  dare  say 
she  could  swing  with  one  hand  and  carry  you  in  the 
other,  if  she  had  a  mind  to  try." 

This  ready  advocacy  of  a  new-found  divinity  angered 
Angele  beyond  measure.  Possibly  she  meant  no  greater 
harm  than  the  disconcerting  of  a  rival;  but  she  slipped 
out  of  the  room  when  Mr.  Herbert  sent  Elsie  to  the 
library  to  bring  a  portfolio  of  old  prints  which  he 
wished  to  show  Mrs.  Saumarez.  Although  it  was  never 
definitely  proved  against  Angele,  someone  tampered  with 
the  rope  before  a  move  was  made  to  the  garden  after 
tea.  The  cause,  the  effect,  were  equally  clear;  the 
human  agent  remained  unknown. 

"  Now,  I'll  prove  my  words,"  cried  Elsie,  darting 
across  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  others. 

"  Here,  it's  my  turn,"  shouted  the  boy  gleefully.  "  I'll 
race  you." 

"  Martin !  Martin !  I  want  you !  "  shrieked  Angele, 
running  after  him. 

He  paid  no  heed  to  her  cries.  Outstripping  both  girls 
in  the  race,  he  sprang  at  the  swing,  and  was  carried 
almost  to  the  debated  limit  of  the  tree  by  the  impetus 
of  the  rush.  When  he  felt  himself  stopping  he  threw 
up  his  feet  in  a  wild  effort  to  touch  the  leaves  so  tanta- 


276  The  Revellers 

lizingly  out  of  reach,  and  in  that  instant  the  rope  broke. 

He  turned  completely  over  and  fell  with  a  heavy  thud 
on  the  back  of  his  bent  head.  -  The  screaming  of  the  girls 
brought  the  vicar  from  his  prints  in  great  alarm,  and 
his  agitation  increased  when  he  discovered  that  the  boy 
could  neither  move  nor  speak. 

Elsie  was  halfway  to  the  White  House  before  Martin 
regained  his  breath.  Once  vitality  returned,  however, 
he  was  quickly  on  his  feet  again. 

"  What  happened  ?  "  he  asked,  craning  his  head  awk- 
wardly. "  I  thought  someone  fired  a  gun !  " 

"  You  frightened  us  nearly  out  of  our  wits,"  cried 
the  vicar.  "  And  I  was  stupid  enough  to  send  Elsie 
flying  to  your  people.  Goodness  knows  what  she  will 
have  said  to  them !  " 

Promptly  the  boy  shook  himself  and  tried  to  break 
into  a  run. 

"  I  must — follow  her,"  he  gasped.  But  not  yet  was 
the  masterful  spirit  able  to  control  relaxed  muscles ;  he 
collapsed  again. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  cried  aloud  in  a  new  fear,  but  the 
vicar,  accustomed  to  the  minor  accidents  of  the  cricket 
field  and  gymnasium,  was  cooler  now. 

"  He's  all  right — only  needs  a  drink  of  water  and  a 
few  minutes'  rest,"  he  explained. 

He  bade  one  of  the  maids  go  as  quickly  as  possible 
to  the  Bollands'  farm  and  say  that  the  mischief  to 
Martin  was  a  mere  nothing,  and  then  busied  himself  in 
more  scientific  fashion  with  restoring  his  patient's 
animation. 

Unfastening  the  boy's  collar  and  the  neckband  of  his 
shirt,  Mr.  Herbert  satisfied  himself  that  the  clavicle 


The  Seven  Full  Tears  277 

was  uninjured.  There  was  a  slight  abrasion  of  the 
scalp,  which  was  sore  to  the  touch.  In  a  minute,  or  less, 
Martin  was  again  protesting  that  there  was  little  the 
matter  with  him.  He  would  not  be  satisfied  until  the 
vicar  allowed  him  to  start  once  more  for  the  village, 
though  at  a  more  sedate  pace. 

Then  Mrs.  Saumarez,  in  a  voice  of  deep  dis- 
tress, asked  Mr.  Herbert  if  the  rope  had  really  been 
cut. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  You  can  see  yourself  that  there 
is  no  doubt  about  it." 

"  But  your  daughter  charged  Angele  with  this — this 
crime.  My  child  denies  it.  She  has  no  knife  or  imple- 
ment of  any  sort  in  her  pocket.  I  assure  you  I  have 
satisfied  myself  on  that  point." 

"  The  affair  is  a  mystery,  Mrs.  Saumarez.  It  must 
be  cleared  up.  Thank  God,  Martin  escaped !  He  might 
be  lying  here  dead  at  this  moment." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  not  an  accident?  " 

"What  am  I  to  say?  Here  is  a  stout  hempen  cord 
with  nearly  all  its  strands  severed  as  if  with  a  razor, 
and  the  other  torn  asunder.  And,  from  what  I  can 
gather,  it  was  Elsie,  and  not  Martin,  for  whose  benefit 
this  diabolical  outrage  was  planned." 

The  vicar  spoke  warmly,  but  the  significance  of  the 
incident  was  dawning  slowly  on  his  perplexed  mind. 
Providence  alone  had  ordained  that  neither  the  boy  nor 
the  girl  had  been  gravely,  perhaps  fatally,  injured. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  was  haggard.  She  seemed  to  have 
aged  in  those  few  minutes. 

"  Angele !  "  she  cried. 

The  girl,  who  was  soblnng,  came  to  her. 


278  The  Revellers 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  said  the  distracted  mother, 
"  that  you  interfered  with  the  swing?  Why  did  you 
leave  the  drawing-room  during  tea  ?  " 

"  I  only  went  to  stroke  a  cat,  mamma.  Indeed,  I 
never  touched  the  swing.  Why  should  I?  And  I  could 
not  cut  it  with  my  fingers." 

"  On  second  thoughts,"  said  the  vicar  coldly,  "  I 
think  that  the  matter  may  be  allowed  to  rest  where  it  is. 
Of  course,  one  of  my  servants  may  be  the  culprit,  or  a 
mischievous  village  youth  who  had  been  watching  the 
children  at  play.  But  the  two  girls  do  not  seem  to  get 
on  well  together,  Mrs.  Saumarez.  I  fear  they  are  en- 
dowed with  widely  different  temperaments." 

The  hint  could  not  be  ignored.  The  lady  smiled 
bitterly. 

"  It  is  well  that  I  should  have  decided  already  to  leave 
Elmsdale,"  she  said.  "  It  is  a  charming  place,  but  my 
visit  has  not  been  altogether  fortunate." 

Mr.  Herbert  remembered  the  curious  phrase  in  after 
years.  He  understood  it  then.  At  the  moment  he  was 
candidly  relieved  when  Mrs.  Saumarez  and  'Angele  took 
their  departure.  He  jammed  on  a  hat  and  hastened  to 
the  White  House  to  learn  what  sort  of  sensation  Elsie 
had  created. 

A  week  later  he  made  a  discovery.  He  had  a  curious 
hobby — he  was  his  own  bootmaker,  and  Elsie's,  having 
taught  himself  to  be  a  craftsman  in  an  art  which  might 
well  claim  higher  rank  than  it  holds.  When  next  he 
rummaged  among  his  implements  for  a  shoemaker's 
knife  it  was  missing.  It  was  found  in  the  garden  next 
spring,  jammed  to  the  top  of  the  hilt  into  the  soft 
mold  beneath  a  rhododendron.  The  tools  were  kept  on 


The  Seven  Full  Years  279 

a  bench   in   the   conservatory;   so  Angele  might   have 
accomplished  her  impish  desire  in  a  few  seconds. 

On  reaching  the  White  House  he  was  mildly  surprised 
at  finding  Martin  propped  against  the  knee  of  a  tall, 
soldierly  stranger,  who  was  consoling  the  boy  with  a 
reminiscence  of  a  far  worse  toss  at  polo,  by  which  a 
hard  sola  topi  was  flattened  on  the  iron  surface  of  an 
Indian  maidan.  Elsie,  white,  but  much  interested,  was 
sipping  a  glass  of  milk. 

"  Eh,  Vicar,"  cried  Mrs.  Bolland,  in  whose  face  Mr. 
Herbert  saw  signs  of  recent  excitement,  "  your  lass  gev 
us  a  rare  start.  She  landed  here  like  a  mad  thing, 
screamed  oot  that  Martin  was  dead,  an'  dropped  te  t' 
flure  half  dead  herself." 

"  The  fault  was  mine,  Mrs.  Bolland.  There  was  an 
accident.  At  first  I  thought  Martin  was  badly  hurt. 
I  am,  indeed,  very  sorry  if  Elsie  alarmed  you." 

His  words  were  meant  to  reassure  the  others,  but  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  girl's  pallid  face.  John  Bolland 
laughed  in  his  dry  way. 

"  Nay,  Passon,  dinna  fret  aboot  Elsie.  She's  none  t' 
warse  for  a  sudden  stop.  She  was  ower-excited. 
Where's  yon  lass  o'  Mrs.  Saumarez's?  " 

"  Gone  home  with  her  mother.  I  hear  they  are  leav- 
ing Elmsdale." 

"  A  good  riddance !  "  said  John  heartily.  He  turned 
to  Martin.  "  Ye'll  be  winded  again,  I  reckon?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  left  my  ash  stick  i'  t'  low  yard.  Mebbe 
you  an'  t'  young  leddy  will  fetch  it.  There's  noa  need 
te  hurry." 

This  was  an  oblique  instruction  to  the  boy  to  make 


280  The  Revellers 

himself  scarce  for  half  an  hour.  With  Elsie  as  a  com- 
panion he  needed  no  urging.  They  set  off,  happy  as 
grigs. 

"  Noo,  afore  ye  start  te  fill  t'  vicar  wi'  wunnerment," 
cried  Martha,  "  I  want  te  ax  t'  colonel  a  question." 

"What  is  it,  Mrs.  Bolland?" 

Colonel  Grant  was  smiling  at  the  vicar's  puzzled  air. 
These  good  people  knew  naught  of  formal  introductions. 

"  How  old  is  t'  lad?  " 

"  He  was  fourteen  years  old  on  the  sixth  of  last 
June." 

"  Eh,  but  that's  grand."  She  clapped  her  hands  de- 
lightedly. "  I  guessed  him  tiv  a  week  or  two.  We 
reckoned  his  birthday  as  a  twel'month  afore  we  found 
him,  and  that  was  June  the  eighteenth.  And  what's  his 
right  neam?  " 

"  He  was  christened  after  me  and  after  his  mother's 
family.  His  name  is  Reginald  Ingram  Grant." 

"  May  I  ask  who  in  the  world  you  are  talking  about?  " 
interposed  the  perplexed  vicar. 

"  Wheii?  Why,  oor  Martin !  "  cried  Martha.  "  He's 
a  gentleman  born,  God  bless  him ! " 

"  And,  what  is  much  more  important,  Mrs.  Bolland, 
he  is  a  gentleman  bred,"  said  the  colonel. 

The  scene  in  the  kitchen  of  the  White  House  had 
been  too  dramatic  that  some  hint  of  it  should  not  reach 
the  village  that  night.  Soon  all  Elmsdale  knew  that 
the  mystery  of  Martin's  parentage  had  been  solved, 
and  great  was  the  awe  of  the  boy's  playmates  when  they 
heard  that  his  father  was  a  "  real  live  colonel  i'  t' 
army."  A  garbled  version  of  the  story  came  to  Mr. 


The  Seven  Full  Years  281 

Beckett-Smythe's  ears,  and  he  called  on  Colonel  Grant 
at  the  "  Black  Lion  "  next  day. 

He  arrived  in  state,  in  a  new  Mercedes  car,  handled 
by  a  chauffeur  replica  .of  Fritz  Bauer.  Beckett-Smythe 
had  hardly  mastered  his  surprise  at  the  colonel's  con- 
firmation of  that  which  he  had  regarded  as  "  an  in- 
credible yarn  "  when  Mrs.  Saumarez  drove  up.  She, 
too,  recalling  the  message  brought  by  Martin  from  her 
husband's  comrade-in-arms,  came  to  verify  the  strange 
tale  told  by  the  Misses  Walker.  Angele  accompanied 
her,  and  the  girl's  eyes  shot  lightning  at  Martin,  who 
was  on  the  point  of  guiding  his  father  to  the  moor  when 
Mr.  Beckett-Smythe  put  in  an  appearance. 

The  lawyer  had  departed  for  London  by  the  morning 
train;  the  three  older  people  and  the  two  youngsters 
gathered  in  the  room  thus  set  at  liberty,  Mrs.  Atkinson 
having  remodeled  it  into  a  sitting-room  for  the  colonel's 
use. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  hailed  the  stranger  effusively. 

"  It  is  delightful  to  run  across  anyone  who  knew  my 
husband,"  she  said.  "  In  this  remote  part  of  Yorkshire 
none  seems  to  have  ever  heard  of  him.  Believe  me, 
Colonel  Grant,  it  is  positively  a  relief  to  meet  a  man 
who  recognizes  my  name." 

She  may  have  intended  this  for  an  oblique  thrust  at 
Beckett-Smythe,  relations  between  the  Hall  and  The 
Elms  having  been  somewhat  strained  since  the  inquest. 
The  Squire,  a  good  fellow,  who  had  no  inkling  of 
Angela's  latest  escapade,  hastened  to  make  amends. 

"  You  two  must  want  to  chat  over  old  times,"  he  said 
breezily.  "Why  not  come  and  dine  with  me  to-night? 
I  have  only  one  other  guest — an  Admiralty  man.  He's 


282  The  Revellers 

prowling  about  the  coast  trying  to  select  a  suitable 
site  for  a  wireless  station." 

Now,  Mrs.  Saumarez  would  have  declined  the  invita- 
tion had  Beckett-Smythe  stopped  short  at  the  first  sen- 
tence. As  it  was,  she  accepted  instantly. 

"  Do  come,  Colonel  Grant,"  she  urged.  "  What  be- 
tween the  Navy  and  the  Intelligence  Department  it 
should  be  an  interesting  evening.  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  look 
so  surprised,"  she  went  on,  with  an  engaging  smile. 
"  I  still  read  the  Gazette,  you  know." 

"And  what  of  the  kiddies?"  said  Beckett-Smythe. 
"  They  know  my  boys.  Your  chauffeur  can  bring  them 
home  at  nine.  By  the  way,  the  meal  will  be  quite  in- 
formal— come  as  you  are-" 

"  What  do  you  say,  Martin?  "  said  the  colonel. 

"  I  shall  be  very  pleased,  sir ;  but  may  I — ask — my 
mother  first?  " 

The  boy  reddened.  His  new  place  in  the  world  was 
only  twenty-four  hours  old,  and  his  ideas  were  not  yet 
adjusted  to  an  order  of  things  so  astounding  that  he 
thought  every  minute  he  would  wake  up  and  find  he 
had  been  dreaming. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  and  a  kindly  hand  fell  on  his  shoul- 
der. "  I  am  glad  you  spoke  of  it.  Mrs.  Bolland  is 
worthy  of  all  the  respect  due  to  the  best  of  mothers." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,  Martin,"  announced  Angele  sud- 
denly. 

Martin  hesitated.  He  was  doubtful  of  the  reception 
Mrs.  Bolland  might  give  the  minx  who  had  nearly 
caused  him  to  break  his  neck,  and,  for  his  own  part,  he 
wanted  to  avoid  Angele  altogether.  She  was  a  disturb- 
ing influence.  He  feared  her  not  at  all  as  a  spitfire. 


The  Seven  Full  Years  283 

It  was  when  she  displayed  her  most  engaging  qualities 
that  she  was  really  dangerous,  and  he  knew  from  experi- 
ence that  her  mood  had  changed  within  the  past  five 
minutes.  On  alighting  from  the  car  she  would  like  to 
have  scratched  his  face.  Now  he  would  not  be  surprised 
if  she  elected  to  walk  with  him  hand  in  hand  through 
the  village  street. 

His  father  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Let  us  all  go  and  see  Mrs.  Bolland,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  only  a  few  yards." 

They  went  out  into  the  roadway.  Then  Beckett- 
Smythe  was  struck  by  an  afterthought. 

"  If  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll  run  along  to  the  vicarage 
and  ask  Herbert  and  his  daughter  to  join  us,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  bit  her  lip. 

"  I  think  I'll  leave  Angele  at  home,"  she  said  in  a  low 
tone.  "  The  child  is  delicate.  During  the  past  week  I 
have  insisted  that  she  goes  to  bed  at  eight  every 
evening." 

Colonel  Grant  understood  why  the  lady  did  not  want 
the  two  girls  to  meet,  but  it  was  borne  in  on  him  that 
she  herself  was  determined  not  to  miss  that  impromptu 
dinner  party.  In  a  vague  way  he  wondered  what  her 
motive  could  be. 

"  Ah,  that's  a  pity,"  he  heard  Beckett-Smythe  say. 
"  She  can  be  well  wrapped  up,  and  the  weather  is 
mild." 

He  moved  a  little  ahead  of  the  two.  Martin,  deter- 
mined not  to  be  left  alone  with  Angele,  hastened  to 
greet  his  friend,  Fritz.  The  two  chauffeurs  were  con- 
versing in  German.  Apparently,  they  were  examining 
the  engine  of  the  new  car. 


284  The  Revellers 

"  Martin,"  murmured  Angele,  "  don't  bother  about 
Fritz.  He'll  snap  your  head  off.  He's  furious  because 
he  lost  a  map  the  other  day." 

But  Martin  pressed  on.  No  longer  could  Angele 
deceive  him — "  twiddle  him  around  her  little  finger,"  as 
she  would  put  it. 

"Hello,  Fritz!"  he  cried.  "What  map  did  you 
lose?  Not  the  one  I  marked  for  you?  " 

Fritz  turned.  The  new  chauffeur  closed  the  bonnet 
of  the  engine. 

"  No,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly,  and  looking  at 
Angele.  "  It  was  a  small  road  map.  You  haf  not  seen 
it,  I  dink." 

"  Was  it  made  of  linen,  with  a  red  cover?  " 

"  Yez,"  and  the  man's  face  became  curiously  stern. 

"  Oh,  I  saw  you  studying  it  one  day  at  The  Elms, 
but  you  didn't  have  it  on  the  moor. 

Fritz's  scowl  changed  to  an  expression  of  disap- 
pointment. 

"  I  haf  mislaid  it,"  he  grunted,  and  again  his  glance 
dwelt  on  Angele,  who  met  his  gaze  with  a  bland  indiffer- 
ence that  seemed  to  gall  him. 

Colonel  Grant  drew  near.  He  had  been  eyeing  the 
two  spick-and-span  chauffeurs. 

"  Who  is  your  friend,  Martin  ?  "  he  said.  He  was 
interested  in  everything  the  boy  did  and  in  everyone 
whom  he  knew. 

"  Oh,  this  is  Fritz  Bauer,  Mrs.  Saumarez's  chauf- 
feur. .  .  .  Fritz,  this  is  Colonel  Grant,  of  the 
Indian  Army." 

Instantly  the  two  young  Germans  straightened  as 
though  some  mechanism  had  stiffened  their  spines  and 


The  Seven  Full  Years  285 

thrown  back  their  heads.  The  newcomer's  heels  clicked 
and  his  right  hand  was  raised  in  a  salute.  Fritz,  better 
schooled  than  his  comrade  by  longer  residence  in  Eng- 
land, barely  prevented  his  heels  from  clicking,  and  man- 
aged to  convert  the  salute  into  a  raising  of  his  cap. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  flustered,  because 
he  said  not  a  word,  and  the  open-air  tan  of  his  cheeks 
assumed  a  deeper  tint. 

Apparently,  Colonel  Grant  saw  nothing  of  this,  or, 
if  he  noticed  the  man's  confusion,  attributed  it  to 
nervousness. 

"  Two  Mercedes  cars  in  one  small  village !  "  he  ex- 
claimed laughingly.  "  You  Germans  are  certainly  con- 
quering England  by  peaceful  penetration." 

Mrs.  Saumarez  elected,  after  all,  not  to  visit  the 
White  House  that  afternoon,  so  Angele,  having  said 
good-by  to  the  colonel  and  Martin  in  her  prettiest  man- 
ner, was  whisked  off  in  the  car. 

"  By  the  way,  Martin,"  said  his  father  as  the  two 
walked  to  the  farm.  "  Mrs.  Saumarez  is  German  by 
birth.  Have  you  ever  heard  anything  about  her 
family?" 

Martin  had  a  good  memory. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  said.  "  She  is  a  baroness — the  Baron- 
ess Irma  von  Edelstein." 

The  colonel  was  surprised  at  this  glib  answer. 

"Who  told  you?"  he  inquired. 

"  Angele,  sir.  But  Mrs.  Saumarez  did  not  wish 
people  to  use  her  title.  She  was  vexed  with  Angele  for 
even  mentioning  it." 

Mrs.  Saumarez  sent  her  car  to  bring  Colonel  Grant 
.and  his  son  to  the  Hall.  She  was  slightly  ruffled  when 


286  The  Revellers 

Fritz  told  her  that  they  had  gone  already,  Mr.  Beckett- 
Smythe  having  collected  his  guests  from  both  the  inn 
and  the  vicarage. 

She  might  have  been  positively  indignant  if  she  had 
overheard  Grant's  comments  to  the  Admiralty  official 
while  the  two  strolled  on  the  lawn  before  dinner. 

"  A  couple  of  Prussian  officers,  if  ever  I  saw  the  genu- 
ine article,"  said  the  colonel.  "  Real  junkers — smart- 
looking  fellows,  too.  Mrs.  Saumarez  is  the  widow  of  a 
British  officer — a  fine  chap,  but  poor  as  a  church  mouse 
— and  she  belongs  to  a  wealthy  German  family.  Verbum 
sap." 

"  Nuff  said,"  grinned  the  sailor.  "  But  what  is  one 
to  do?  No  sooner  is  this  outfit  erected  but  it'll  be 
added  to  the  display  of  local  picture  postcards,  and  the 
next  German  bigwig  who  visits  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try will  be  invited  to  amuse  himself  by  ringing  up 
Bremen." 

At  any  rate,  Mrs.  Saumarez  was  told  that  night  that 
the  Yorkshire  coast  was  too  highly  magnetized  to  suit 
a  wireless  station.  The  sailor  thought  an  inland  town 
like  York  would  provide  an  ideal  site. 

"  You  see,"  he  explained  politely,  "  when  the  German 
High  Seas  Fleet  defeats  the  British  Navy  it  can  shell 
our  coast  towns  all  to  smithereens." 

She  smiled. 

"  You  fighting  men  invariably  talk  of  war  with  Ger- 
many as  an  assured  thing,"  she  said.  "  Yet  I,  who  know 
Germany,  and  have  relatives  there,  am  convinced  that 
the  notion  is  absurd." 

"  The  Emperor  has  been  twenty  years  on  the  throne 
and  has  never  drawn  sword  except  on  parade,"  put  in  the 


The  Seven  Full  Years  287 

vicar.  "  There  may  have  been  danger  once  or  twice  in 
his  hot  youth,  but  he  has  grown  to  like  England,  and  I 
cannot  conceive  him  plunging  a  great  and  thriving  coun- 
try into  the  morass  of  a  doubtful  campaign." 

"  Ninety-nine  per  cent  of  Englishmen  like  to  think 
that  way,"  said  the  Admiralty  man.  "  In  a  multitude 
of  counselors  there  is  wisdom,  so  let's  hope  they're 
right." 

When  the  young  folk  got  together  on  the  terrace, 
Frank  Beckett^Smythe  asked  Martin  why  his  neck  was 
stiff. 

"  I  took  a  toss  off  Elsie's  swing  yesterday,"  was  the 
airy  answer.  Not  a  word  did  he  or  Elsie  say  as  to 
Angele,  and  the  Beckett-Smythes  knew  better  than  to 
introduce  her  name. 

Mrs.  Saumarez  left  for  the  South  rather  hurriedly. 
She  paid  no  farewell  visits.  She  and  Angele  traveled 
in  the  car;  Fran9oise  followed  with  the  baggage.  The 
Misses  Walker  were  consoled  for  the  loss  of  a  valued 
lodger  by  receiving  a  less  exacting  one  in  the  person  of 
Martin's  father. 

The  boy  himself,  when  his  mental  poise  was  adjusted 
to  the  phenomenal  change  in  his  life,  soon  grew  accus- 
tomed to  a  new  environment.  Mr.  Herbert  undertook 
to  direct  his  studies  in  preparation  for  a  public  school, 
and  Martha  Bolland  became  reconciled  gradually  to 
seeing  him  once  or  twice  daily,  instead  of  all  day,  for 
he,  too,  lived  at  The  Elms. 

Officially,  as  it  were,  he  adopted  his  new  name,  but 
to  the  small  world  of  Elmsdale  he  would  ever  be  "  Mar- 
tin." Even  his  father  fell  into  the  habit. 


288  The  Revellers 

The  colonel  drove  him  to  the  adjourned  petty  sessions 
at  Nottonby  when  Betsy's  case  came  on  for  hearing. 
Mr.  Stockwell  abandoned  his  critical  attitude  and  con- 
curred with  the  police  that  there  was  no  need  to  bring 
Angele  Saumarez  from  London  to  attend  the  trial. 
Mrs.  Saumarez  gave  no  thought  to  the  fact  that  the 
girl  might  be  needed  to  give  evidence,  but  the  authorities 
decided  that  there  were  witnesses  in  plenty  as  to  the 
outcry  raised  in  the  garden  after  Pickering  was 
wounded. 

It  was  November  before  Betsy  appeared  at  the  county 
assizes.  When  she  entered  the  dock,  those  who  knew  her 
were  astonished  by  the  improvement  in  her  appearance. 
It  was  probable  that  the  enforced  rest,  the  regular  exer- 
cise, the  judicious  diet  of  the  prison  had  exercised  a 
beneficial  effect  on  her  health. 

Her  demeanor  was  calm  as  ever,  and  the  able  bar- 
rister who  defended  her  did  not  scruple  to  suggest  that 
it  would  create  a  better  effect  with  the  jury  if  she 
adopted  a  less  unemotional  attitude. 

Her  reply  silenced  him. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "  that  I  will  be  permitted 
to  atone  for  my  wrongdoing  by  punishment?  No.  I 
live  because  my  husband  wished  me  to  live.  I  will  be 
called  to  account,  but  not  by  an  earthly  judge  or  jury." 

She  was  right.  The  assize  judge  held  the  scales  of 
justice  impartially  between  the  sworn  testimony  of 
George  Pickering  and  Betsy's  witnesses,  on  the  on£ 
hand,  and  the  evidence  of  Martin  and  the  groom^ 
backed  by  the  scientists,  on  the  other. 

The  jury  gave  her  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  and  ac- 
quitted her,  but  it  was  noticed  by  many  that  his  lord- 


The  Seven  Full  Years  289 

ship  contented  himself  with  ordering  her  discharge  from 
custody.  He  passed  no  opinion  on  the  verdict. 

So  Betsy  was  installed  as  mistress  of  Wetherby 
Lodge,  the  trustees  having  decided  that  she  was  well 
fitted  to  manage  the  estate. 

Tongues  wagged  in  Elmsdale  when  Mr.  Stockwell 
drove  thither  one  day  and  solemnly  handed  over  to 
Martin  the  sword  and  the  double-barreled  gun,  and  to 
John  Bolland  the  pedigree  cow  bequeathed  by  George 
Pickering. 

The  farmer  eyed  the  animal  grimly. 

"  'Tis  an  unfortunate  beast,"  he  said.  "  Mebbe  if  I 
hadn't  sold  her  te  poor  George  he  might  nivver  hae 
coom  te  Elmsdale  just  then." 

"  Do  not  think  that,"  the  solicitor  assured  him. 
"  Pickering  would  most  certainly  have  visited  the  fair. 
I  know,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  he  wished  to  purchase 
one  of  your  brood  mares." 

"  Ay,  ay.  She  went  te  Jarmany.  Well,  if  I'm  spared, 
I'll  send  a  good  calf  to  Wetherby." 

The  lawyer  and  he  shook  hands  on  the  compact.  Yet 
Pickering's  odd  bequest  was  destined  to  work  out  in  a 
way  that  would  have  amazed  the  donor,  could  he  but 
know  it. 

Martin  was  at  Winchester — his  father's  old  school — 
when  he  received  a  letter  in  Bolland's  laborious  hand- 
writing. It  read: 

"  MY  DEAR  LAD — Yours  to  hand,  and  this  leaves  your 
mother  and  self  in  good  health.  We  were  glad  to  hear 
that  the  box  arrived  all  right  and  that  your  mates  think 
well  of  Yorkshire  cakes.  You  may  learn  a  lot  of  use- 
ful things  at  school,  but  you  will  not  often  meet  with  a 


290  The  Revellers 

better  cook  than  your  mother.  She  is  sore  upset  just 
now  about  a  mishap  we  have  had  on  the  farm.  I  turned 
out  nearly  all  my  shorthorns  to  graze  on  the  low  pas- 
tures. The  ground  was  a  bit  damp,  and  a  strange  cow 
broke  in  at  night  to  join  them.  I  don't  rightly  know 
what  to  blame,  but  next  day  they  showed  signs  of 
rinderpest.  I  sent  for  the  vet,  and  they  had  to  be 
slaughtered — all  but  one  two-year-old  bull,  Bainesse 
Boy  IV.,  and  Mr.  Pickering's  cow,  which  were  not  with 
them  in  the  meadow.  It  is  a  great  loss,  but  I  don't 
repine,  now  that  you  are  provided  for,  and  it  is  not  quite 
like  starting  all  over  again,  as  I  have  my  land  and  my 
Cleveland  bays,  and  I  am  in  no  debt.  In  such  matters  I 
turn  to  the  Lord  for  consolation.  I  have  just  read  this 
verse  to  Martha :  '  I  have  been  young,  and  now  am  old ; 
yet  I  have  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed 
begging  bread.'  If  you  are  minded  to  look  it  up,  you 
will  find  it  in  the  Thirty-seventh  Psalm. 

"  I  don't  want  to  pretend  that  the  blow  has  not  been 
a  hard  one,  but,  God  willing,  there  will  be  a  hamper  for 
you  at  Christmas,  if  Colonel  Grant  is  too  busy  to  bring 
you  North.  Your  mother  joins  in  much  love. 

"Your  affect., 

"JOHN  BOLLAND." 

"  P.  S. — Maybe  you  will  not  have  forgotten  that  Mrs. 
Saumarez  said  the  land  needed  draining.  She  was  a 
clever  woman  in  some  ways." 

The  boy's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  understood  only 
too  well  the  far-reaching  misfortune  which  had  befallen 
the  farmer.  The  total  value  of  the  herd  was  £5,000, 
and  he  remembered  that  experts  valued  the  young  sur- 
viving bull  at  £300  as  a  yearling.  In  all,  twenty-three 
animals  had  been  slaughtered  by  the  law's  decree,  and 
the  compensation  payable  to  Bolland  would  not  cover 
a  twentieth  part  of  the  actual  loss. 

Martin  not  only  wrote  a  letter  of  warm  sympathy  to 


The  Seven  Full  Years  291 

his  adopted  parents  but  sent  Bolland's  letter  to  his 
father,  with  an  added  commentary  of  his  own.  Colonel 
Grant  obtained  short  leave  and  traveled  to  Elmsdale 
next  day.  It  took  some  trouble  to  bring  John  round 
to  his  point  of  view,  but  the  argument  that  the  farm 
should  be  restocked  in  Martin's  interests  prevailed,  and 
negotiations  were  opened  with  prominent  breeders  else- 
where which  resulted  in  the  purchase  of  a  notable  bull 
and  eight  heifers,  for  which  Bolland  and  the  colonel 
each  found  half  the  money.  The  farmer  would  listen  to 
no  other  arrangement,  though  he  promised  that  if  he  ex- 
perienced any  tightness  for  money  he  would  not  hesitate 
to  apply  for  further  help. 

The  need  never  made  itself  felt.  The  first  animal  to 
produce  successful  progeny  was  George  Pickering's  cow ! 
No  man  in  the  North  Riding  was  more  pleased  than 
John  that  day.  Throughout  the  whole  of  his  life  the 
only  person  who  ever  brought  a  charge  of  unfair  dealing 
against  him  was  Pickering.  The  memory  rankled,  and 
its  sting  was  none  the  less  bitter  because  of  a  secret 
dread  that  he  had  perhaps  been  guilty  of  a  piece  of 
sharp  practice.  Now  his  character  was  cleared. 

Pattison,  his  old  crony,  asked  him,  by  way  of  a  joke, 
how  much  "  he'd  tak'  for  t'  cauf." 

John  blazed  into  unexpected  anger. 

"At  what  figger  de  you  reckon  yer  own  good  neam, 
Mr.  Pattison?" 

"  I  don't  knoa  as  I'd  care  te  sell  it  at  onny  price, 
Mr.  Bollan'." 

"  Then  ye'll  think  as  I  do  aboot  yon  cauf.  Neyther 
it  nor  any  other  of  its  dam's  produce  will  ivver  leave 
my  farm  if  I  can  help  it." 


CHAPTER  XIX 
OUT  OF  THE  MISTS 

THIS  record  of  a  Yorkshire  village — a  true  chronicle 
of  life  among  the  canny  folk  who  dwell  on  the  "  moor 
edge  " — might  well  be  left  at  the  point  it  reached  when 
one  of  its  chief  characters  saw  before  him  the  smooth 
and  sunlit  road  of  a  notable  career. 

But  history,  though  romantic,  is  not  writ  as  romance, 
and  the  story  of  Elmsdale  is  fact,  not  fiction.  After 
eight  years  of  somnolence  the  village  awoke  again.  It 
was  roused  from  sleep  by  the  tumult  of  a  world  at  war ; 
mayhap  the  present  generation  shall  pass  away  before 
the  hamlet  relapses  into  its  humdrum  ways. 

Martin  was  twenty-two  when  his  father  and  he  jour- 
neyed north  to  attend  the  annual  sale  of  the  Elmsdale 
herd,  which  was  fixed  for  the  two  opening  days  of  July, 
1914.  Each  year  Colonel  Grant  brought  his  son  to  the 
village  for  six  weeks  prior  to  the  twelfth  of  August; 
this  year  there  was  a  well-founded  rumor  in  the  little 
community  that  the  colonel  meant  to  buy  The  Elms. 

The  announcement  of  Bolland's  sale  brought  foreign 
agents  from  abroad  and  well-known  stock-raisers  from 
all  parts  of  the  Kingdom.  No  less  than  forty  animals 
entered  the  auction  ring.  One  bull,  Bainesse  Boy  VI., 
realized  £800.  Bainesse  Boy  IV.  held  a  species  of  levee 
in  a  special  stall.  He  had  grown  into  a  wonder.  On  a 

292 


Out  of  the  Mists  293 

table,  over  which  Sergeant  Benson  mounted  guard,  were 
displayed  five  championship  cups  he  had  carried  off, 
while  fifteen  cards,  arranged  in  horseshoe  pattern  on 
the  wall,  each  bore  the  magic  words,  "  First  Prize," 
awarded  at  Islington,  Birmingham,  the  Royal,  and  wher- 
ever else  in  Britain  shorthorns  and  their  admirers  most 
do  congregate. 

The  village  hummed  with  life;  around  the  sale  ring 
gathered  a  multitude  of  men  arrayed  in  Melton  cloth 
and  leather  leggings,  whose  general  appearance  betok- 
ened the  wisdom  of  Dr.  Johnson's  sarcastic  dictum: 
"  Who  drives  fat  oxen  should  himself  be  fat." 

Martha  and  a  cohort  of  maids  boiled  hams  by  the 
dozen  and  baked  cakes  in  fabulous  quantities.  John 
graced  the  occasion  by  donning  a  new  suit  and  new 
boots,  in  which  the  crooked  giant  was  singularly  ill 
at  ease. 

Mrs.  Pickering  drove  over  from  Nottonby — Kitty 
was  married  two  years  before  to  a  well-to-do  farmer  at 
Northallerton — and  someone  rallied  her  on  "  bein'  ower 
good-lookin'  te  remain  a  widow  all  her  days." 

She  laughed  pleasantly. 

"  I'm  far  too  busy  at  Wetherby  to  think  of  adding  a 
husband  to  my  cares,"  she  said ;  but  those  who  knew  her 
best  could  have  told  that  she  had  refused  at  least  two 
excellent  offers  of  matrimony  and  meant  to  remain  Mrs. 
Pickering  during  the  rest  of  her  days. 

At  the  close  of  the  second  day's  sale,  when  the  crowd 
was  thinned  by  the  departure  of  a  fleet  of  cars  and  a 
local  train  at  five  o'clock,  the  White  House  was  thronged 
by  its  habitues,  who  came  to  make  a  meal  of  the  "  high 
tea." 


294  The  Revellers 

Colonel  Grant  and  John  had  just  concluded  an  ami- 
cable wrangle  whereby  it  was  decided  that  they  should 
jointly  provide  the  considerable  sum  needed  to  acquire 
The  Elms  and  some  adjoining  land.  The  house  and 
grounds  were  to  be  remodeled  and  the  property  would 
be  deeded  to  Martin  forthwith. 

The  young  gentleman  himself,  as  tall  as  his  father 
now,  and  wearing  riding  breeches  and  boots,  was  stand- 
ing at  the  front  door,  turning  impatient  eyes  from  a 
smart  cob,  held  by  a  groom,  to  the  bend  in  the  road 
where  it  curved  beyond  the  "  Black  Lion." 

A  smartly-dressed  young  lady  passed,  and  although 
Martin  lifted  his  hat  with  a  ready  smile  his  glance  wan- 
dered from  her  along  the  road  again.  Evelyn  Atkinson 
wondered  who  it  was  that  thus  distracted  his  atten- 
tion. 

A  few  yards  farther  on,  Elsie  Herbert,  mounted  on  a 
steady  old  hunter,  passed  at  a  sharp  trot.  Evelyn's 
pretty  face  frowned  slightly. 

"  If  she  is  home  again,  of  course,  he  has  eyes  for 
nobody  else,"  she  said  to  herself. 

And,  indeed,  it  was  true.  Elsie  had  been  to  Dresden 
for  two  years.  She  had  returned  to  Elmsdale  the  pre- 
vious day,  and  a  scribbled  note  told  Martin  to  look  for 
her  after  tea. 

The  two  set  off  together  through  the  village,  bound 
for  the  moor.  Many  a  critical  look  followed  them. 

"  Eh,  but  they're  a  bonny  pair,"  cried  Mrs.  Summers- 
gill,  who  became  stouter  each  year.  "  Martin  allus 
framed  to  be  a  fine  man,  but  I  nivver  thowt  yon  gawky 
lass  o'  t'  vicar's  'ud  grow  into  a  beauty." 

"  This  moor  air  is  wonderful.     Look  at  the  effect 


Out  of  the  Mists  295 

it  has  on  you,  Mrs.  Summersgill,"  said  Colonel  Grant 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  Oh,  go  on  wi'  ye,  Colonel,  pokin'  fun  at  a  poor  owd 
body  like  me.  But  I  dean't  ho'd  wi'  skinny  'uns. 
Martha,  what's  become  o'  Mrs.  Saumarez  an'  that 
flighty  gell  o'  hers.  What  did  they  call  her — Angel? 
My  word! — a  nice  angel — not  that  she  wasn't  as  thin 
as  a  sperrit." 

"  Miss  Walker  told  me,  last  Christmas  twel'month, 
they  were  i'  France,"  said  Martha. 

"  France  ?  Ay,  maist  like ;  it's  a  God-forsaken  place, 
I'll  be  boun'."  * 

"  Nay,"  interposed  Bolland,  "  that's  an  unchristian 
description  of  onny  counthry,  ma'am.  Ye'll  find  t'  Lord 
ivverywhere  i'  t'  wide  wulld,  if  ye  seek  Him.  There's 
bin  times  when  He  might  easy  be  i'  France,  for  He 
seemed,  iv  His  wisdom,  to  be  far  away  frae  Elms- 
dale." 

Mrs.  Summersgill  snorted  contempt  for  all  "  fur- 
riners,"  but  Martha  created  a  diversion. 

"  Goodness  me ! "  she  cried,  "  yer  cup's  empty.  I 
nivver  did  see  sike  a  woman.  Ye  talk  an'  eat  nowt." 

Martin,  now  in  his  third  year  at  Oxford,  was  some- 
what mystified  by  the  change  brought  about  in  Elsie  by 
two  years  of  "  languages  and  music  "  passed  in  the  most 
attractive  of  German  cities.  Though  not  flippant,  her 
manner  nonplussed  him.  She  was  distinctly  "  smart," 
both  in  speech  and  style.  She  treated  a  young  gentle- 
man who  had  already  taken  his  degree  and  was  reading 
for  honors  in  history  with  an  easy  nonchalance  that  was 
highly  disconcerting.  The  last  time  they  parted  they 
had  kissed  each  other,  she  with  tears,  and  he  with  a  lump 


296  The  Revellers 

in  his  throat.  Now  he  dared  no  more  offer  a  cousinly,  or 
brotherly,  or  any  other  sort  of  salute  in  which  kissing 
was  essential,  than  if  she  were  a  royal  princess. 

"  You've  altered,  old  girl,"  he  said  by  way  of  a  con- 
versational opening  when  their  horses  were  content  to 
walk,  after  a  sharp  canter  along  a  moorland  track. 

"  I  should  hope  so,  indeed,"  came  the  airy  retort. 
"  Surely,  you  didn't  expect  to  find  the  Elmsdale  label 
on  me  after  two  years  of  Jcultur?  " 

"  Whatever  the  label,  the  vintage  looks  good,"  he 
said. 

"  You  mean  that  as  a  compliment,"  she  laughed. 
"  And,  now  that  I  look  at  you  carefully,  I  see  signs  of 
improvement.  Of  course,  the  Oxford  swank  is  an  abomi- 
nation, but  you'll  lose  it  in  time.  Father  told  me  last 
night  that  you  were  going  in  for  the  law  and  politics. 
Is  that  correct?  " 

Martin,  masterful  as.  ever,  was  not  minded  to  endure 
such  supercilious  treatment  at  Elsie's  hands.  He  had 
looked  forward  to  this  meeting  with  a  longing  that  had 
almost  interfered  with  his  work;  it  was  more  than  irri- 
tating to  find  his  divinity  modeling  her  behavior  on  the 
lines  of  the  Girton  "  set  "  at  the  University. 

They  had  reached  a  point  of  the  high  moor  which 
overlooked  Thor  ghyll.  Martin  pulled  up  his  cob  and 
dismounted. 

"  Let's  give  the  nags  a  breather  here,"  he  said. 
"Shall  I  help  you?" 

"No,  thanks." 

Elsie  was  out  of  the  saddle  promptly.  She  rode 
astride.  In  a  well-fitting  habit,  with  divided  skirt  and 
patent-leather  boots,  she  looked  wonderfully  alluring, 


Out  of  the  Mists  297 

but  her  air  of  aloofness  was  carried  almost  to  the  verge 
of  indifference. 

She  showed  some  surprise  when  Martin  took  her 
horse's  reins  and  threw  them  over  his  left  arm. 

"  Are  you  going  to  lecture  me?  "  she  said,  arching  her 
eyebrows.  "  It  would  be  just  like  a  fledgling  B.A.,  who 
is  doubtless  a  member  of  the  Officers'  Training  Corps,  to 
tell  me  that  my  German  riding-master  taught  me  to  sit 
too  stiffly." 

"  He  did,"  said  Martin,  meeting  the  sarcastic  blue 
eyes  without  flinching.  "  But  a  few  days  with  the  York 
and  Ainsty  and  Lord  Middleton's  pack  will  put  that 
right.  You'll  come  a  purler  at  your  first  stone  wall  if 
you  ride  with  such  long  stirrup  leathers.  However,  I 
want  you  to  jump  another  variety  of  obstacle  to-day. 
You  asked  me  just  now,  Elsie,  if  I  was  going  in  for  the 
law.  Yes.  But  I'm  going  in  for  you  first.  You  know 
I  love  you,  dear.  You  know  I  have  been  your  very 
humble  but  loyal  knight  ever  since  I  won  your  recogni- 
tion down  there  in  the  valley,  when  I  was  only  a  farmer's 
son  and  you  were  a  girl  of  a  higher  social  order.  I  have 
never  forgotten  that  you  didn't  seem  to  heed  class  dis- 
tinctions then,  Elsie,  and  it  hurts  now  to  have  you  treat 
me  with  coldness." 

Elsie,  trying  valiantly  to  appear  partly  indignant 
and  even  more  amused  at  this  direct  attack,  failed  most 
lamentably.  First  she  flushed ;  then  she  paled. 

She  faced  Martin's  gaze  confidently  enough  at  the 
outset,  but  her  eyes  dropped  and  her  lips  quivered  when 
she  heard  the  words  which  no  woman  can  hear  without 
a  thrill.  Still,  she  made  a  brave  attempt  to  rally  her 
forces. 


298  The  Revellers 

"  I  didn't — quite  mean — what  you  say,"  she  faltered, 
which  was  a  schoolgirl  form  of  protest  for  one  who  had 
achieved  distinction  in  a  course  of  English  literature. 

Martin  took  her  by  the  shoulders.  The  two  horses 
nosed  each  other.  They,  perforce,  were  dumb,  but  their 
wise  eye's  seemed  to  exchange  the  caustic  comment : 
"  What  fools  these  mortals  be !  Why  don't  they  hug, 
and  settle  the  business  ?  " 

"  I  must  know  what  you  do  mean,"  said  Martin, 
almost  -  fiercely.  "  I  love  you,  Elsie.  Will  you  marry 
me?"  • 

She  lifted  her  face.  The  blue  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears,  but  the  adorable  mouth  trembled  in  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  murmured.  "  But  what  did  you 
expect?  6id  you — think  I  would — throw  my  arms 
around  you — in  the  village  street?  " 

'After  that  Martin  had  no  reason  to  accuse  Elsie  of 
being  either  stiff  or  cold.  When  the  vicar  heard  the 
news  that  night — for  Martin  and  the  colonel  dined  at 
the  Vicarage — he  stormed  into  mock  dissent. 

"  God  bless  my  soul,"  he  cried,  "  my  little  girl  has 
been  away  two  whole  years,  and  you  come  and  steal  her 
away  from  me  before  she  has  been  home  twenty-four 
hours ! " 

Then  he  produced  a  handkerchief  and  yielded,  appar- 
ently, to  a  violent  attack  of  hay  fever.  Yet  it  was  a 
joyous  company  which  gathered  around  the  dinner 
table,  for  Elsie  herself,  casting  off  the  veneer  of  Dresden, 
drove  posthaste  to  summon  the  Bollands  to  the  feast. 

John  was  specially  deputed  by  Colonel  Grant  to  make 
a  significant  announcement. 

"  We're  all  main  pleased  you  two  hev  sattled  matters 


Out  of  the  Mists  299 

so  soon,"  he  said,  peering  alternately  at  Martin's  atten- 
tive face  and  Elsie's  blushing  one.  "  Yer  father  an' 
me  hev  bowt  The  Elms,  an'  a  tidy  bit  o'  land  besides, 
so  ye'll  hev  a  stake  i'  t'  county  if  ivver  ye're  minded  te 
run  for  Parlyment.  The  Miss  Walkers  (John  pro- 
nounced the  name  "Wahker")  are  goin'  te  live  in  a 
small  hoos  i'  Nottonby.  They've  gotten  a  fine  lot  o' 
Spanish  mahogany  an'  owd  oak  which  they're  willin'  te 
sell  by  vallyation ;  so  the  pair  of  ye  can  gan  there  i'  t' 
mornin'  an'  pick  an'  choose  what  ye  want." 

Elsie  looked  at  her  father,  but  neither  could  utter  a 
word.  Martha  Bolland  put  an  arm  around  the  girl's 
neck. 

"  Lord  luv'  ye,  honey ! "  she  said  brokenly,  "  it'll  be 
just  like  crossin'  the  road.  May  I  be  spared  te  see  you 
happy  and  comfortable  in  yer  new  home,  for  you'll 
surely  be  one  of  the  finest  ladies  i'  Yorkshire." 

No  shadow  darkened  their  joy  in  that  cheerful  hour. 
Even  next  day,  when  a  grim  specter  flitted  through 
Elmsdale,  the  ominous  vision  evoked  only  a  passing 
notice.  Colonel  Grant  and  the  vicar,  each  an  expert 
in  old  furniture,  accompanied  the  young  people  to  The 
Elms  and  examined  its  antique  dressers,  sideboards, 
tables,  and  the  rest.  Many  of  the  bedroom  chests  were 
of  solid  mahogany.  The  Misses  Walker  had  cleared 
the  drawers  of  the  lumber  of  years,  so  that  the  prospec- 
tive purchasers  could  note  the  interior  finish. 

Miss  Emmy,  not  so  tactful  as  her  elder  sister,  brought 
in  a  name  which  the  others  present  wished  to  forget. 

"  Mrs.  Saumarez  used  this  room  as  a  dressing-room," 
she  said,  "  and  while  turning  out  rubbish  from  a  set  of 
drawers  I  came  across  this." 


300  The  Revellers 

She  displayed  a  small  red-covered  folding  road-map, 
such  as  cyclists  and  motorists  use.  Martin  thought  he 
recognized  it. 

"  I  believe  that  is  the  very  map  lost  by  Fritz  Bauer, 
Mrs.  Saumarez's  chauffeur,"  he  said. 

"  Probably,  sir.  He  made  a  rare  row  with  Miss 
Angele  about  it.  I  was  half  afraid  he  meant  to  shake 
her.  No  one  knew  what  had  become  of  it,  but  either 
Miss  Angele  or  her  mother  must  have  hidden  it.  Why, 
I  can't  guess." 

Elsie  helped  to  smooth  over  an  awkward  incident. 
She  took  the  map  and  began  to  open  it. 

"  It  couldn't  have  been  such  an  important  matter," 
she  said.  Then  she  shook  apart  the  folded  sheet,  and 
they  all  saw  that  it  bore  a  number  of  entries  and  signs 
in  faded  ink,  black  and  red.  The  written  words  werev 
in  German,  and  Elsie  scanned  a  few  lines  hurriedly. 
She  looked  puzzled,  even  a  trifle  perturbed,  but  recov- 
ered her  smiling  self-possession  instantly. 

"  The  poor  man,  being  a  foreigner,  jotted  down  some 
notes  for  his  guidance,"  she  said.  "  May  I  have  it?  " 

"  With  pleasure,  miss,"  said  the  old  lady. 

It  was  not  until  the  party  had  returned  to  the 
vicarage  that  Elsie  explained  her  request.  She  spread 
the  map  on  a  table,  and  her  smooth  forehead  wrinkled 
in  doubt. 

"  This  is  serious,"  she  said.  "  I  have  lived  in  Ger- 
many long  enough  to  understand  that  one  cannot  mix 
with  German  girls  in  the  intimacy  of  school  and  at  their 
homes  without  knowing  that  an  attack  on  England  is 
simply  an  obsession  of  their  menfolk,  and  even  of  the 
women.  They  regard  it  as  a  certainty  in  the  near 


Out  of  the  Mists  301 

future,  pretending  that  if  they  don't  strike  first  Eng- 
land will  crush  them." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  she  would ! "  broke  in  Colonel 
Grant  emphatically.  "  In  existing  conditions  this  coun- 
try resembles  an  unarmed  policeman  waiting  for  a  burg- 
lar to  fire  at  him  out  of  the  darkness." 

Mr.  Herbert,  man  of  peace  that  he  was,  might  have 
voiced  a  mild  disclaimer,  had  not  Elsie  stayed  him. 

"  Listen,  father,"  she  said  seriously.  "  Here  is  proof 
positive.  That  chauffeur  was  a  military  spy.  See 
what  is  written  across  the  top  of  the  map :  *  Gutes 
Wasser;  Futter  in  Fiille;  Uberfluss  von  Vieh,  Schafen 
und  Pferden.  Einzelheiten  auf  genauen  Ortlichkeiten 
angegeben.'  That  means  *  Good  water ;  abundance  of 
fodder;  plenty  of  cattle,  sheep,  and  horses.  Details 
given  on  exact  localities.'  And,  just  look  at  the  details! 
Could  a  child  fail  to  interpret  their  meaning?  " 

Elsie's  simile  was  not  far-fetched,  yet  gray-headed 
statesmen,  though  they  may  have  both  known  and  under- 
stood, refused  to  believe.  That  little  road-map,  on  a 
scale  of  one  mile  to  an  inch,  contained  all  the  informa- 
tion needed  by  the  staff  of  an  invading  army. 

The  moor  bore  the  legend : 

"  Platz  f  iir  Lager,  leicht  verschanzt ;  beherrscht 
Hauptstrassen  von  Whitby  und  Pickering  nach  York. 
Rote  Kreise  kennzeichnen  reichlichen  Wasservorrat  f  iir 
Kavallerie  und  Artillerie."  (Site  for  camp,  easily  en- 
trenched. Commands  main  roads  from  Whitby  and 
Pickering  to  York.  Red  circles  show  ample  water  sup- 
ply for  cavalry  and  artillery.) 

Every  road  bore  its  classification  for  the  use  of 
troops,  showing  the  width,  quality  of  surface,  and  gradi- 


302  The  Revellers 

ents.  Each  bridge  was  described  as  "  stone  "  or  "  iron." 
Even  cross-country  trails  were  indicated  when  fordable 
streams  rendered  such  passage  not  too  difficult. 

The  little  group  gazed  spellbound  at  the  extraor- 
dinarily accurate  synopsis  of  the  facilities  offered  by 
the  placid  country  of  Yorkshire  for  the  devilish  purposes 
of  war.  Martin,  in  particular,  devoured  the  entries 
relating  to  the  moor.  On  Metcalf 's  farm  he  saw :  "  Six 
hundred  sheep  here,"  and  at  the  Broad  Ings,  "  Four  hun- 
dred sheep,  three  horses,  four  cows."  Well  he  knew 
who  had  given  the  spy  those  facts.  His  glowing  eyes 
wandered  to  the  village.  A  long  entry  distinguished 
the  White  House,  and  though  he  knew  a  good  deal  of 
German  he  was  beaten  by  the  opening  technical  word. 

"  What  is  that,  Elsie?  "  he  said,  and  even  his  father 
wondered  at  the  hot  anger  in  his  utterance. 

The  girl  read: 

"  Stammbaum  Vieh  hier ;  drei  Stiere,  achtzehn  Kiihe 
und  Farsen,  nicht  zum  Schlachten,  sehr  wertvoll.  Neben 
bei  sechs  Stuten,  besten  Types  zur  Zucht." 

Then  she  translated: 

"  Pedigree  cattle  here ;  three  bulls,  eighteen  cows  and 
heifers,  not  to  be  slaughtered ;  very  valuable.  Also  six 
brood  mares  of  best  type  for  stud." 

"  The  infernal  scoundrel !  "  blazed  out  Martin.  "  So 
the  Bolland  stock  must  be  taken  to  the  Fatherland,  and 
not  eaten  or  drafted  into  service!  And  to  think  that  I 
gave  him  nearly  all  that  information !  " 

"You,  Martin?"  cried  Elsie. 

"  Yes.  He  pumped  me  dry.  I  even  showed  him  the 
site  of  every  pond  on  the  moor." 

'*  Don't  blame  the  man,"  put  in  Colonel  Grant.     "  I 


Out  of  the  Mists  303 

knew  him  as  a  Prussian  officer  at  the  first  glance.  But 
he  was  simply  doing  his  duty.  Blame  our  criminal  care- 
lessness. We  cannot  stop  foreigners  from  prowling 
about  the  country,  but  we  can  and  should  make  it  impos- 
sible for  any  enemy  to  utilize  such  data  as  are  contained 
in  this  map." 

"  But,  consider,"  put  in  the  perturbed  vicar.  "  This 
evil  work  was  done  eight  years  ago,  and  what  has  all  the 
talk  of  German  preparation  come  to  ?  Isn't  it  the  bom- 
bast of  militarism  gone  mad?  " 

"  It  comes  to  this,"  said  the  colonel.  "  We  are  just 
eight  years  nearer  war.  I  am  convinced  that  the  break 
must  occur  before  1916 — and  for  two  reasons:  Ger- 
many's financial  state  is  dangerous,  and  in  1916  Russia 
will  have  completed  on  her  western  frontier  certain  strat- 
egic lines  which  will  expedite  mobilization.  Germany 
won't  wait  till  her  prospective  foes  are  ready.  France 
knows  it.  That  is  why  she  has  adopted  the  three  years' 
service  scheme." 

"  Then  why  won't  you  let  me  join  the  army,  dad?  " 
demanded  Martin  bluntly. 

Colonel  Grant  spread  his  hands  with  the  weary  gesture 
of  a  man  who  would  willingly  shirk  a  vital  decision. 

"  In  peace  the  army  is  a  poor  career,"  he  said.  "  The 
law  and  politics  offer  you  a  wider  field.  But  not  you 
only — every  young  man  in  the  country  should  be  trained 
to  arms.  As  matters  stand,  we  have  neither  the  men  nor 
the  rifles.  Our  artillery,  excellent  of  its  type,  is  about 
sufficient  for  an  army  corps,  and  we  have  a  fortnight's 
supply  of  ammunition.  I  am  not  an  alarmist.  We  have 
enough  regiments  to  repel  a  raid,  supposing  the  enemy's 
transports  dodged  the  fleet ;  but  Heaven  help  us  if  we 


304  The  Revellers 

dream  of  sending  an  expeditionary  force  to  France  or 
Egypt,  or  any  single  one  of  a  score  of  vulnerable  points 
outside  the  British  Isles !  " 

"  Beckett-Smythe  retained  one  of  those  German 
chauffeurs  in  his  service  for  a  whole  year,"  said  the 
vicar,  on  whom  a  new  light  had  dawned  with  the  dis- 
covery of  the  telltale  map. 

"Are  there  many  of  the  brood  in  the  district  now?  " 
inquired  the  colonel. 

"  I  fancy  not." 

"  There  is  no  need,  they  have  done  their  work,"  said 
Elsie.  "  Last  winter  I  met  a  young  officer  in  Dresden, 
and  he  told  me  he  had  taken  a  walking  tour  through  this 
part  of  Yorkshire  during  the  summer.  He  knew  Elms- 
dale  quite  well.  He  remembered  the  vicarage,  The 
Elms,  and  the  White  House.  Yet  he  said  he  was  here 
only  a  day !  " 

"  Fritz  Bauer's  maps  are  the  best  of  guides,"  com- 
mented Colonel  Grant  bitterly. 

The  vicar  was  literally  awe-stricken.  He  stooped 
over  the  map. 

"  Is  this  sort  of  thing  going  on  all  over  the  country  ?  " 
he  gasped. 

"  More  or  less.  Naturally,  the  east  coast  has  been 
the  chief  hunting  ground,  as  that  must  provide  the  ter- 
rain of  any  attack.  Of  course,  so  long  as  the  political 
sky  remains  fairly  clear,  as  it  is  at  this  moment,  there 
is  always  a  chance  that  humanity  will  escape  Armaged- 
don for  another  generation.  The  world  is  growing  more 
rational  and  its  interests  are  becoming  ever  more  identi- 
cal. Even  the  Junkers  are  feeling  the  pressure  of  public 
opinion,  and  the  great  masses  of  the  people  demand 


Out  of  the  Mists  305 

peace.  That  is  why  I  want  Martin  to  learn  the  power 
of  voice  and  pen  rather  than  of  the  sword.  I  have  been 
a  soldier  all  my  life,  and  I  hate  war ! " 

The  man  who  had  so  often  faced  death  in  his  country's 
cause  spoke  with  real  feeling.  He  longed  to  make  war 
impossible  by  making  victory  impossible  for  an  agressor. 
He  claimed  no  rights  for  Britain  that  he  would  deny 
Germany  or  any  other  country  in  the  comity  of  nations. 

Suddenly  he  took  the  map  off  the  table  and  folded  it. 

"  I'll  send  this  curio  to  Whitehall,"  he  said  with  a 
smile.  "  It  will  form  part  of  a  queer  collection.  Now, 
let's  talk  of  something  else.  .  .  .  Martin,  after  the 
valuer  has  inspected  that  furniture,  you  might  see  to  it 
that  the  whole  lot  is  stored  in  the  east  bedrooms.  The 
architect  will  not  disturb  that  part  of  the  house." 

"  Oh,  when  can  we  look  at  the  plans  ?  "  chimed  in 
Elsie. 

These  four  people,  who  in  their  way  fairly  represented 
the  forty  millions  of  Great  Britain,  discussed  the  spy's 
map  in  the  drawing-room  of  Elmsdale  vicarage  on 
July  6th,  1914.  On  the  sixth  of  August,  exactly  one 
month  later,  two  German  army  corps,  with  full  artillery 
and  commissariat  trains,  were  loaded  into  transports 
and  brought  to  the  mouth  of  the  Elbe.  They  hoped  to 
avoid  the  British  fleet,  and  their  objective  was  the  York- 
shire coast  between  Whitby  and  Filey.  Once  ashore, 
they  meant  entrenching  a  camp  on  the  Elmsdale  moor. 
Obviously,  they  did  not  dream  of  conquering  England 
by  one  daring  foray.  Their  purpose  was  to  keep  the 
small  army  of  Britain  fully  occupied  until  France  was 
humbled  to  the  dust.  They  would  lose  the  whole  hundred 
thousand  men.  But  what  of  that?  German  soldiers  are 


306  The  Revellers 

regarded  as  cannon  fodder  by  their  rulers,  and  the  price 
in  human  lives  would  not  be  too  costly  if  it  retained 
British  troops  at  home. 

It  was  an  audacious  scheme,  and  audacity  is  the  first 
principle  of  successful  war.  Its  very  spine  and  marrow 
was  the  knowledge  of  the  North  and  East  Ridings 
gained  in  time  of  peace  by  the  officers  who  would  lead 
the  invading  host.  That  it  failed  was  due  to  England's 
sailors,  the  men  who  broke  Napoleon,  and  were  destined, 
by  God's  good  grace,  to  break  the  robber  empire  of 
Germany. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  RIGOR  OF  THE  GAME 

ELMSDALE  at  war  is  very  like  Elmsdale  in  peace.  At 
least,  that  was  Martin's  first  impression  when  he  and 
General  Grant  motored  to  the  village  from  York  on  a 
day  in  September,  1915.  Father  and  son  had  passed 
unscathed  through  the  hellfire  of  Loos,  General  Grant 
in  command  of  a  brigade,  and  Martin  a  captain  in  a 
Kitchener  battalion.  They  were  in  England  on  leave 
now,  the  middle-aged  general  for  five  days,  and  the 
youthful  captain  for  ten,  and  the  purpose  of  this  joint 
home-coming  was  Martin's  marriage. 

When  it  became  evident  that  the  world  struggle  would 
last  years  rather  than  months,  General  Grant  and  the 
vicar  put  their  heads  together,  metaphorically  speaking, 
since  the  connecting  link  was  the  field  post-office,  and 
arranged  a  war  wedding.  Why  should  the  young  people 
wait?  they  argued.  Every  consideration  pointed  the 
other  way.  With  Martin  wedded  to  Elsie,  legal  for- 
malities as  to  Bolland's  and  the  general's  estate  could, 
be  completed,  and  if  Heaven  blessed  the  union  with  chil- 
dren the  continuity  of  two  old  families  would  be  assured. 

So,  to  Martin's  intense  surprise,  he  was  called  to  the 
telephone  one  Saturday  morning  in  the  trenches  and 
told  that  he  had  better  hand  over  his  company  to  the 
senior  subaltern  as  speedily  as  might  be,  since  his  ten 
days'  leave  began  on  the  Monday,  such  being  the  ami- 

307 


308  The  Revellers 

able  device  by  which  commanding  officers  permit  juniors 
to  reach  Blighty  before  an  all-too-brief  respite  from 
the  business  of  killing  Germans  begins  officially. 

He  met  his  father  at  Boulogne,  and  there  learnt  that 
which  he  had  only  suspected  hitherto :  he  and  Elsie  were 
booked  for  an  immediate  honeymoon  on  a  Scottish 
moor — at  Cairn-corrie,  to  be  exact.  By  chance  the  two 
travelers  ran  into  Frank  Beckett-Smythe,  a  gunner 
lieutenant  in  London,  and  he  undertook  to  rush  north 
that  night  to  act  as  "  best  man."  Father  and  son 
caught  a  train  early  on  Sunday  and  hired  a  car  at  York, 
Elmsdale  having  no  railway  facilities  on  the  day  of  rest. 

They  arrived  in  time  to  attend  the  evening  service  at 
the  parish  church,  to  which,  mirdbile  dictu,  John  and 
Martha  Bolland  accompanied  them.  The  war  has 
broken  down  many  barriers,  but  few  things  have  crum- 
bled to  ruin  more  speedily  than  the  walls  of  prejudice 
and  sectarian  futilities  which  separated  the  many  phases 
of  religious  thought  in  Britain. 

The  church,  with  its  small  graveyard,  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  village,  and  the  Grants  had  to  wring  scores 
of  friendly  hands  before  they  and  the  others  walked  to 
the  vicarage  for  supper.  Martin  and  Elsie  contrived 
to  extricate  themselves  from  the  crowd  slightly  in  ad- 
vance of  the  older  people.  They  felt  absurdly  shy. 
They  were  wandering  in  dreamland. 

Early  next  morning  Martin  strolled  into  the  village. 
He  wanted  to  stir  the  sluggish  current  of  enlistment, 
for  England  was  then  making  a  final  effort  to  maintain 
her  army  on  a  voluntary  basis.  Elmsdale  was  so  un- 
changed outwardly  that  he  marveled.  He  hardly 
realized  that  it  could  not  well  be  otherwise.  He  had 


The  Rigor  of  the  Game  309 

seen  so  many  French  hamlets  torn  by  war  that  the  snug 
content  of  this  sheltered  nook  in  rural  Yorkshire  was 
almost  uncanny  by  contrast.  The  very  familiarity  of 
the  scene  formed  its  strangest  element.  Its  sights,  its 
sounds,  its  homely  voices,  were  novel  to  the  senses  of 
one  whose  normal  surroundings  were  the  abominations 
of  war.  Here  were  trim  houses  and  well-filled  stock- 
yards, smiling  orchards  and  cattle  grazing  in  green 
pastures.  Everywhere  was  peace.  He  was  the  only 
man  in  uniform,  until  Sergeant  Benson  appeared  in  the 
doorway  of  a  cottage  and  saluted.  The  village  had  its 
own  liveries — the  corduroys  of  the  carpenter,  redolent 
of  oil  and  turpentine,  the  tied-up  trouser  legs  of  the 
laborer,  the  blacksmith's  leather  apron,  ragged  and 
burnt,  a  true  Vulcan's  robe,  the  shoemaker's,  shiny  with 
the  stropping  of  knives  and  seamed  with  cobbler's  wax. 
The  panoply  of  Mars  looked  singularly  out  of  place  in 
this  Sleepy  Hollow. 

But,  by  degrees,  he  began  to  miss  things.  There 
were  no  young  men  in  the  fields.  All  the  horses  had 
gone,  save  the  yearlings  and  those  too  old  for  the  hard 
work  of  artillery  and  transport.  He  questioned  Benson 
and  found  that  little  Elmsdale  had  not  escaped  the  levy 
laid  on  the  rest  of  Europe.  Jim  Bates  was  in  the 
Yorkshire  Regiment.  Tommy  Beadlam's  white  head 
was  resting  forever  in  a  destroyed  trench  at  Ypres.  Tom 
Chandler  had  fallen  at  Gallipoli.  Evelyn  Atkinson  was 
a  nurse,  and  her  two  sisters  were  "  in  munitions  "  at 
Leeds.  Yes,  there  were  some  shirkers,  but  not  many. 
For  the  most  part,  they  were  hidden  in  the  moorland 
farms.  "  T'  captain  "  would  remember  Georgie  Jack- 
son? Well,  he  was  one  of  the  stand-backs — wouldn't 


310  The  Revellers 

go  till  he  was  fetched.  The  village  girls  made  his  life  a 
misery,  so  he  "  hired  "  at  the  Broad  Ings,  miles  away 
in  the  depths  of  the  moor.  One  night  about  a  month 
ago  one  of  those  "  d — d  Zeppelines  "  dropped  a  bomb 
on  the  heather,  which  caught  fire.  A  second,  following 
a  murder  trail  to  Newcastle,  saw  the  resultant  blaze 
and  dropped  twelve  bombs.  A  third,  believing  that  real 
damage  was  being  done,  flung  out  its  whole  cargo  of 
twenty-nine  bombs. 

**  So,  now,  sir,"  grinned  Benson,  "  there's  a  fine  lot 
o'  pot-holes  i'  t'  moor.  Georgie  was  badly  scairt.  He 
saw  the  three  Zepps,  an'  t'  bombs  fell  all  over  t'  farm. 
Next  mornin'  he  fund  three  sheep  banged  te  bits.  An' 
what  d'ye  think?  He  went  straight  te  Whitby  an' 
'listed.  He  hez  a  bunch  o'  singed  wool  in  his  pocket, 
an'  sweers  he'll  mak*  some  Jarman  eat  it." 

So  Martin  only  recruited  a  wife  that  day,  and  evi- 
dently secured  a  sensible  one,  for  Elsie,  taking  thought, 
on  hearing  certain  vivid  descriptions  of  trench  life  on 
the  Sunday  evening,  vetoed  the  wedding  trip  to  Scot- 
land, and  persuaded  her  husband  to  "  go  the  limit "  in 
London,  where  plenty  of  society  and  a  round  of  theaters 
acted  as  a  wholesome  tonic  after  the  monotony  of  high- 
explosive  existence  in  a  dugout. 

In  February,  1917,  Martin  was  "  in  billets "  at 
Armentieres.  He  had  been  promoted  to  the  staff,  and 
had  fairly  earned  this  coveted  recognition  by  a  series 
of  daring  excursions  into  "  No  Man's  Land  "  every 
night  for  a  week,  which  enabled  him  to  plan  an  attack 
on  the  German  lines  at  Chapelle  d'Armentieres.  Never 
thinking  of  any  personal  gain,  he  drew  up  a  memo- 


The  Rigor  of  the  Game  311 

randum,  which  he  submitted  to  his  colonel.  The  latter 
sent  the  document  to  Divisional  Headquarters;  the 
scheme  was  approved.  Fritz  was  pushed  forcibly  half 
a  mile  nearer  Lille,  and  "  Captain  Reginald  Ingram 
Grant "  was  informed,  in  the  dry  language  of  the 
Gazette,  that  in  future  he  would  wear  a  red  band  around 
his  field  service  cap  and  little  red  tabs  on  the  shoulders 
of  his  tunic. 

That  was  a  great  day  for  him,  but  his  elation  was  as 
nothing  compared  with  the  joy  of  Elmsdale  when  the 
Messenger  reprinted  the  announcement.  Elsie,  of  course, 
imagined  that  her  husband  was  now  comparatively  safe 
for  the  rest  of  the  war,  and  he  has  never  undeceived  her. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  first  real  "  job  "  was  to  carry 
out  a  fresh  series  of  observations  at  a  point  south  of 
Armentieres  along  the  road  to  Arras.  This  might 
involve  another  six  days  of  lurking  in  dugouts  at  the 
front  and  six  nights  of  crawling  through  and  under 
German  barbed  wire. 

His  companion  was  a  sapper  sergeant  named  Mason. 
They  suspected  that  the  German  position  was  heavily 
mined  in  anticipation  of  an  attack  at  that  very  point, 
and  it  was  part  of  their  business  at  the  outset  to  ascer- 
tain whether  or  not  this  was  the  case. 

The  enemy's  lines  were  about  one  hundred  and  fifty 
yards  away,  and  all  observers  agree  that  the  chief 
difficulty  experienced  in  the  pitch-black  darkness  of  a 
cloudy,  moonless  night  is  to  estimate  the  distance  cov- 
ered. Crawling  over  shell-torn  ground,  slow  work  at 
the  best,  is  rendered  slower  by  the  frequent  waits  neces- 
sary while  rockets  flare  overhead  and  Verrey  lights 
describe  brilliant  parabolas  in  unexpected  directions. 


312  The  Revellers 

Martin,  up  to  every  trick  and  dodge  of  the  "  listening 
post,"  surveyed  the  field  of  operations  through  a  peri- 
scope, and  noticed  that  one  of  the  ditches  which  mark 
boundaries  in  northern  France  ran  almost  in  a  straight 
line  from  the  British  trenches  to  the  German,  and  had 
at  one  time  been  reinforced  by  posts  and  rails.  The 
fence  was  destroyed,  but  many  of  the  posts  remained, 
some  intact,  others  mere  jagged  stumps.  He  estimated 
that  the  nineteenth  was  not  more  than  a  couple  of  yards 
from  the  enemy's  wire,  and  knew  of  old  that  it  was  in 
just  such  an  irregular  hollow  he  might  expect  to  find  a 
weak  place  in  the  entanglement. 

Mason  agreed  with  him. 

"  We  can  save  a  lot  of  time  by  following  that  trail, 
sir,"  he  said.  "  There's  only  one  drawback " 

"  That  Fritz  may  have  hit  on  the  same  scheme," 
laughed  Martin.  "  Possible ;  but  we  must  chance  it." 

Mason  and  he  were  old  associates.  They  had  per- 
fected a  code  of  signals,  by  touch,  that  enabled  them  to 
work  in  absolute  silence.  Thus,  a  slight  hold  meant 
"Halt";  a  slight  push,  "Advance";  a  slight  pull, 
"  Retire."  Each  carried  a  trench  knife  and  a  revolver, 
the  latter  for  use  as  a  last  resource  only.  They  were 
not  going  out  for  fighting  but  for  observation.  If 
enemy  patrols  were  encountered,  they  must  be  avoided. 
Germans  are  not  phlegmatic,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
highly  nervous.  Continuous  raids  by  British  bombing 
parties  had  put  sentries  "  on  the  jump,"  and  the  least 
noise  which  was  not  explained  by  a  whispered  password 
attracted  a  heavy  spray  of  machine-gun  fire.  Especially 
was  this  the  case  during  the  hour  before  dawn.  By 
hurrying  out  immediately  after  darkness  set  in,  the  two 


The  Rigor  of  the  Game  313 

counted  on  nearing  the  German  front-line  trench  at  a 
time  when  reliefs  were  being  posted  and  fatigue  parties 
were  plodding  to  the  "  dump "  for  the  next  day's 
rations. 

"What  time  will  you  be  back?"  inquired  the  sub- 
altern in  charge  of  the  platoon  holding  that  part  of  the 
British  trench.  It  was  his  duty  to  warn  sentries  to  be 
on  the  lookout  for  the  return  of  scouting  parties. 

Martin  glanced  at  the  luminous  watch  on  his  wrist. 
It  was  then  seven  o'clock,  and  the  night  promised  to  be 
dark  and  quiet.  The  evening  "  strafe  "  had  just  ended, 
and  the  German  guns  would  reopen  fire  on  the  trenches 
about  five  in  the  morning.  During  the  intervening  hours 
the  artillery  would  indulge  in  groups  of  long  shots, 
hoping  to  catch  the  commissariat  or  a  regiment  march- 
ing on  the  pave  in  column  of  fours. 

"  About  twelve,"  said  Martin. 

"  Well,  so  long,  sir !    I'll  have  some  coffee  ready." 

"  So  long !  "  And  Martin  led  the  way  up  a  trench 
ladder. 

No  man  wishes  another  "  Good  luck !  "  in  these  enter- 
prises. By  a  curious  inversion  of  meaning,  "  Good 
luck ! "  implies  a  ninety  per  cent  chance  of  getting 
killed! 

The  two  advanced  rapidly  for  the  first  hundred  yards. 
Then  they  separated,  each  crawling  out  into  the  open 
for  about  twenty  yards  to  right  and  left.  Snuggling 
into  a  convenient  shell  hole,  they  would  listen  intently, 
with  an  ear  to  the  ground,  their  object  being  to  detect 
the  rhythmic  beat  of  a  pick,  if  a  mining  party  was  busy. 
Each  remained  exactly  ten  minutes.  Then  they  met 
and  compared  notes,  always  by  signal.  If  necessary, 


314  The  Revellers 

they  would  visit  a  suspected  locality  together  and  en- 
deavor to  locate  the  line  of  the  tunnel. 

It  was  essential  that  the  British  side  of  "  No  Man's 
Land  "  should  not  be  too  quiet.  Every  few  minutes  a 
rocket  or  a  Verrey  light  would  soar  over  that  torn 
Golgotha.  But  there  was  method  in  the  seeming  mad- 
ness. The  first  and  second  glare  would  illuminate  an 
area  well  removed  from  Martin's  territory.  The  third 
might  be  right  over  him  or  Mason,  but  they  were  then 
so  well  hidden  that  the  sharpest  eye  could  not  discern 
their  presence. 

By  nine  o'clock  they  had  covered  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  enemy's  front,  skirting  his  trip-wire 
throughout  the  whole  distance.  They  had  heard  no 
fewer  than  six  mining  parties.  Each  had  advanced 
some  thirty  yards.  In  effect,  if  the  German  trench  was 
to  be  taken  at  all,  the  attack  must  be  made  next  day, 
and  the  artillery  preparation  should  commence  at  dawn. 
Instead  of  returning  to  the  subaltern's  dugout  at  mid- 
night, Martin  wanted  to  reach  the  telephone  not  later 
than  ten,  and  hurry  back  to  headquarters.  The  staff 
would  have  another  sleepless  night,  but  a  British  bat- 
talion would  not  be  blown  up  while  its  successive 
"  waves  "  were  crossing  "  No  Man's  Land." 

Mason  and  he  crept  like  lizards  to  the  sunk  fence. 
All  they  needed  now  was  a  close  scrutiny  of  the  German 
parapet  in  that  section.  It  was  a  likely  site  for  a 
machine-gun  emplacement  and,  in  that  case,  would  re- 
ceive special  attention  from  a  battery  of  4.7's. 

They  reached  the  ditch  shortly  before  a  rocket  was 
due  overhead.  Making  assurance  doubly  sure,  they 
flattened  against  the  outer  slope  of  a  shell  hole,  took  off 


The  Rigor  of  the  Game  315 

their  caps,  and  each  sought  a  tuft  of  grass  through 
which  to  peer. 

Simultaneously,  by  two  short  taps,  both  conveyed  a 
warning.  They  had  heard  a  slight  rustling  directly  in 
front.  A  Verrey  light,  and  not  a  rocket,  flamed  through 
the  darkness.  Its  brilliancy  was  intense.  But  the 
Verrey  light  has  a  peculiar  property :  far  more  effective 
than  the  rocket  when  it  reveals  troops  in  motion,  it  is 
rendered  practically  useless  if  men  remain  still.  Work- 
ing parties  and  scouts  counteract  its  vivid  beams  by 
absolute  rigidity.  The  uplifted  pick  or  hammer,  the 
advanced  foot,  the  raised  arm,  must  be  kept  in  statu- 
esque repose,  and  the  reward  is  complete  safety.  A 
rocket,  on  the  other  hand,  though  not  half  so  deadly  in 
exposing  an  attack,  demands  that  every  man  within  its 
periphery  shall  endeavor  forthwith  to  blend  with  the 
earth,  or  he  will  surely  be  seen  and  shot  at. 

The  two  Britons,  looking  through  stalks  of  withered 
herbage,  found  themselves  gazing  into  the  eyes  of  a 
couple  of  Germans  crouching  on  the  level  barely  six 
feet  away.  It  seemed  literally  impossible  that  the  enemy 
observers  should  not  see  them.  But  strange  things 
happen  in  war.  The  Germans  were  scanning  all  the 
visible  ground;  the  Englishmen  happened  to  be  on  the 
alert  for  a  recognized  danger  in  that  identical  spot. 
So  the  one  party,  watching  space,  saw  nothing;  the 
other,  prepared  for  a  specific  discovery,  made  it.  What 
was  more,  when  the  light  failed,  the  Germans  were 
assured  of  comparative  safety,  while  their  opponents 
had  measured  the  extent  of  an  instant  peril  and  got 
ready  to  face  it. 

They  knew,  too,  that  the  Germans  must  be  killed  or 


316  The  Revellers 

captured.  One  was  a  major,  the  other  a  noncommis- 
sioned officer,  and  men  of  such  rank  were  seldom  deputed 
by  the  enemy  to  roam  at  large  through  the  strip  of 
debated  land  which  British  endeavor,  drawn  by  its 
sporting  uncertainties,  had  rendered  most  unhealthy 
for  human  "  game  "  of  the  Hun  species. 

A  dark  night  in  that  part  of  French  Flanders  be- 
comes palpably  black  during  a  few  seconds  after  a  flare. 
The  Englishmen  squatted  back  on  their  heels.  Neither 
drew  his  revolver,  but  each  right  hand  clutched  a  trench 
knife,  a  peculiarly  murderous-looking  implement  with 
an  oval  handle,  and  shaped  like  a  corkscrew,  except  that 
the  screw  is  replaced  by  a  short,  flat,  dagger-pointed 
blade.  No  signal  was  needed.  Each  knew  exactly  what 
to  do.  The  accident  of  position  allotted  the  major  to 
Martin. 

The  Germans  came  on  stealthily.  They  had  noted 
the  shell-hole,  and  sat  on  its  crumbling  edge,  meaning 
to  slide  down  and  creep  out  on  the  other  side.  Martin's 
left  hand  gripped  a  stont  boot  by  the  ankle.  In  the 
fifth  of  a  second  he  had  a  heavy  body  twisted  violently 
and  flung  face  down  in  the  loose  earth  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hole.  A  knee  was  planted  in  the  small  of  the 
prisoner's  back,  the  point  of  the  knife  was  under  his 
right  ear,  and  Martin  was  saying,  in  quite  understand- 
able German: 

"  If  you  move  or  speak,  I'll  cut  your  throat !  " 

The  words  have  a  brutal  sound,  but  it  does  not  pay 
to  be  squeamish  on  such  occasions,  and  the  German 
language  adapts  itself  naturally  to  phrases  of  the  kind. 

Sergeant  Mason  had  to  solve  his  own  problem  by  a 
different  method.  The  quarry  chanced  to  be  leaning 


The  Rigor  of  the  Game  317 

forward  at  the  moment  a  vicious  tug  accelerated  his 
progress.  As  a  result,  he  fell  on  top  of  the  hunter,  and 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  the  knife.  A  ghastly  squeal 
was  barely  stifled  by  the  Englishman's  hand  over  the 
victim's  mouth.  At  thirty  yeards,  or  thereabouts,  and 
coming  from  a  deep  hole,  the  noise  might  have  been  a 
grunt.  Nevertheless,  it  reached  the  German  trench. 

"  Wer  da?"  hissed  a  voice,  and  Martin  heard  the 
click  of  a  machine-gun  as  it  swung  on  its  tripod. 

He  did  not  fear  the  gun,  which  only  meant  a  period 
of  waiting  while  its  bullets  cracked  overhead.  What  he 
did  dread  was  a  search  party,  as  German  majors  are 
valuable  birds,  and  must  be  safeguarded.  The  situation 
called  for  the  desperate  measure  he  took.  The  point 
of  the  knife  entered  his  captive's  neck,  and  he  whispered : 

"  Tell  your  men  they  must  keep  quiet,  or  you  die 
now!" 

He  allowed  the  almost  choking  man  to  raise  his  head. 
The  German  knew  that  his  life  was  forfeit  if  he  did  not 
obey  the  order.  A  certain  gurgling,  ever  growing 
weaker,  showed  that  his  companion  would  soon  be  a 
corpse. 

"  Shut  up,  sheep's  head !  "  he  growled. 

It  sufficed.  That  is  the  way  German  majors  talk  to 
their  inferiors. 

The  engineer  sergeant  wriggled  nearer. 

"  Couldn't  help  it,  sir,"  he  breathed.  "  I  had  to  give 
him  one !  " 

"  Go  through  him  for  papers  and  bring  me  his 
belt." 

Within  a  minute  the  officer's  hands  were  fastened 
behind  his  back,  Then  he  was  permitted  to  rise  and, 


318  The  Revellers 

after  being  duly  warned,  told  to  accompany  Mason. 
Martin  followed,  and  the  three  began  the  return  jour- 
ney. A  German  rocket  bothered  them  once,  but  the 
German  was  quick  as  they  to  fall  flat.  Evidently  he 
was  not  minded  to  offer  a  target  for  marksmen  on 
either  side. 

Soon  Mason  was  sent  forward  to  warn  the  sentries. 
Quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  episode  in  the  shell  hole 
Martin,  having  come  from  the  telephone,  was  examining 
his  prisoner  by  the  light  of  an  electric  torch  in  a  dug- 
out. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Freiherr  Georg  von  Struben,  major  of  artillery," 
was  the  somewhat  grandiloquent  answer. 

"  Do  you  speak  English?  " 

"  Nod  mooch." 

Some  long  dormant  chord  of  memory  vibrated  in 
Martin's  brain.  He  held  the  torch  closer.  Von  Struben 
was  a  tall,  well-built  Prussian.  He  smiled,  meaning 
probably  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  business.  His  face 
was  soiled  with  clay  and  perspiration.  A  streak  of 
blood  had  run  from  a  slight  cut  over  an  eyebrow.  But 
the  white  scar  of  an  old  saber  wound,  the  outcome  of  a 
duelling  bout  in  some  university  burschenschaft,  creased 
down  its  center  when  he  smiled.  Then  Martin  knew. 

"Fritz  Bauer!"  he  cried. 

The  German  started,  though  he  recovered  his  self- 
control  promptly. 

"  You  haf  nod  unterstant,"  he  said.  "  I  dell  you 
my  nem " 

"That's  all  right,  Fritz,"  laughed  Martin.  "You 
spoke  good  English  when  you  were  in  Elmsdale.  You 


The  Rigor  of  the  Game  319 

could  fool  me  then  into  giving  you  valuable  information 
for  your  precious  scheme  of  invading  England.  Now 
it's  my  turn !  Have  you  forgotten  Martin  Bolland?  " 

Blank  incredulity  yielded  to  evident  fear  in  the  other 
man's  eyes.  With  obvious  effort,  he  stiffened. 

"  I  was  acting  under  orders,  Captain  Bolland,"  he 
said. 

"Not  Bolland,  but  Grant,"  laughed  Martin.  "I, 
too,  have  changed  my  name,  but  for  a  more  honorable 
reason." 

The  words  seemed  to  irritate  von  Struben. 

"  I  did  noding  dishonorable,"  he  protested.  "  I  was 
dere  by  command.  If  it  wasn't  for  your  d — d  fleet,  I 
would  have  lodged  once  more  in  de  Elms  eighdeen  monds 
ago." 

"  I  know,"  said  Martin.  "  We  found  your  map,  the 
map  which  Angele  stole  because  you  wouldn't  take  her 
in  the  car  the  day  we  went  on  the  moor." 

In  all  likelihood  the  prisoner's  nerves  were  on  edge. 
He  had  gone  through  a  good  deal  since  being  hauled 
into  the  shell  hole,  and  was  by  no  means  prepared  for 
this  display  of  intimate  knowledge  of  his  past  career 
by  the  youthful-looking  Briton  who  had  manhandled 
him  so  effectually.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he  was  so  dis- 
concerted by  the  mere  allusion  to  Angele  that  a  fantastic 
notion  gripped  Martin.  He  pursued  it  at  once. 

"  We  English  are  not  quite  such  idiots  as  you  like  to 
imagine  us,  major,"  he  went  on,  and  so  ready  was  his 
speech  that  the  pause  was  hardly  perceptible.  "  Mrs. 
Saumarez — or,  describing  her  by  her  other  name,  the 
Baroness  von  Edelstein — was  a  far  more  dangerous 
person  than  you.  It  took  time  to  run  her  to  earth — 


320  The  Revellers 

you  know  what  that  means?  when  a  fox  is  chased  to  a 
burrow  by  hounds — but  our  Intelligence  Department 
sized  her  up  correctly  at  last." 

Now  this  was  nothing  more  than  the  wildest  guessing, 
a  product  of  many  a  long  talk  with  Elsie,  the  vicar, 
and  General  Grant  during  the  early  days  of  the  war. 
But  von  Struben  was  manifestly  so  ill  at  ease  that  he 
had  to  cover  his  discomfiture  under  a  frown. 

"  I  have  not  seen  de  lady  for  ten  years,"  he  said. 

This  disclaimer  was  needless.  He  had  been  wiser  to 
have  cursed  Angele  for  purloining  his  map. 

"  Perhaps  not.  She  avoided  Berlin.  But  you  have 
heard  of  her." 

Again  was  the  former  spy  guilty  of  stupidity.  He 
set  his  lips  like  a  steel  trap.  Doubtful  what  to  say,  he 
said  nothing. 

Martin  nodded  to  Sergeant  Mason. 

"  Just  go  through  the  major's  pockets,"  he  said. 
"  You  know  what  we  want." 

Mason's  knowledge  was  precise.  He  left  the  prisoner 
his  money,  watch,  pipe,  and  handkerchief.  The  remain- 
der of  his  belongings  were  made  up  into  a  bundle. 
Highly  valuable  treasure-trove  was  contained  therein, 
the  major  having  in  his  possession  a  detailed  list  of  all 
arms  in  the  Fifty-seventh  Brandenburg  Division  and  a 
sketch  of  the  trench  system  which  it  occupied.  A  glance 
showed  Martin  that  the  Fifty-seventh  Division  lay 
directly  in  front. 

He  turned  to  the  subaltern  whose  dugout  he  was  using 
and  who  had  witnessed  the  foregoing  scene  in  silence. 

"  Can  you  send  a  corporal's  guard  to  D.H.Q.  in 
charge  of  the  prisoner?"  he  asked. 


The  Rigor  of  the  Game  321 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  other.  "  By  the  way,  come 
outside  and  have  a  cigarette." 

Cigarettes  are  not  lighted  in  front-line  communication 
trenches  after  nightfall — not  by  officers,  at  any  rate — 
nor  do  second  lieutenants  address  staff  captains  so  flip- 
pantly. Martin  read  something  more  into  the  invita- 
tion than  appeared  on  the  surface.  He  was  right. 

"  About  this  Mrs.  Saumarez  you  spoke  of  just  now," 
said  the  subaltern  when  they  were  beyond  the  closed  door 
of  the  dugout.  "  Is  she  the  widow  of  one  of  our  fellows, 
a  Hussar  colonel  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  she  is  living  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  heard  some  few  years  since  that  she  was 
residing  there." 

"  She's  there  now.  She  runs  a  sort  of  hostel  for 
youngsters  on  short  leave.  She's  supposed  to  charge  a 
small  fee,  but  doesn't.  And  there's  drinks  galore  for 
all  comers.  She's  extraordinarily  popular,  of  course, 
but  I — er — well,  one  hates  saying  it.  Still,  you  made 
me  sit  up  and  take  notice  when  you  mentioned  the  Intel- 
ligence Department.  Mrs.  Saumarez  has  a  wonderful 
acquaintance  with  the  British  front.  She  tells  you 
things — don't  you  know — and  one  is  led  on  to  talk — sort 
of  reciprocity,  eh  ?  " 

Martin  drew  a  deep  breath.  He  almost  dreaded  put- 
ting the  inevitable  question. 

"  Is  her  daughter  with  her — a  girl  of  twenty-one, 
named  Angele?  " 

"  No.  Never  heard  Mrs.  Saumarez  so  much  as  men- 
tion her." 

"  Thanks.    We've  done  a  good  night's  work,  I  fancy. 


322  The  Revellers 

And — this  for  yourself  only — there  may  be  a  scrap  to- 
morrow afternoon." 

"  Fine !  I  want  to  stretch  my  legs.  Been  in  this 
bally  hole  nine  days.  Well,  here's  your  corporal. 
Good-night,  sir." 

"  Good-night !  " 

And  Martin  trudged  through  the  mud  with  Sergeant 
Mason  behind  von  Struben  and  the  escort. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
NEARING  THE  END 

SIXTY  hours  elapsed  before  Martin  was  able  to  un- 
wrap the  puttees  from  off  his  stiff  legs  and  cut  the  laces 
of  boots  so  caked  with  mud  that  he  was  toi3  weary  to 
untie  them.  In  that  time,  as  the  official  report  put  it, 
"  enemy  trenches  extending  from  Rue  du  Bois  to  Houp- 
lines,  over  a  front  of  nearly  three  miles,  were  occupied 
to  an  average  depth  of  one  thousand  yards,  and  our 
troops  are  now  consolidating  the  new  territory." 

A  bald  announcement,  indeed !  Martin  was  one  of 
the  few  who  knew  what  it  really  meant.  He  had  helped 
to  organize  the  victory ;  he  could  sum  up  its  costs.  But 
this  record  is  not  a  history  of  the  war,  nor  even  of  one 
young  soldier's  share  in  it.  Martin  himself  has  devel- 
oped a  literary  style  noteworthy  for  its  simple  direct- 
ness. Some  day,  if  he  survives,  he  may  tell  his  own 
story. 

When  the  last  of  twelve  hundred  prisoners  had  been 
mustered  in  the  Grande  Place  of  Armentieres,  when  the 
attacking  battalions  had  been  relieved  and  the  reserve 
artillery  was  shelling  Fritz's  hastily  formed  gun  posi- 
tions, when  the  last  ambulance  wagon  of  the  "  special " 
division  had  sped  over  the  pave  to  the  base  hospital  at 
Bailleul,  Martin  thought  he  was  free  to  go  to  bed. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  not.  Utterly  spent,  he 
had  thrown  himself  on  a  cot  and  had  slept  the  sleep  of 

323 


324  The  Revellers 

complete  exhaustion  for  half  an  hour,  when  a  brigade 
major  discovered  that  "  Captain  Grant  "  was  at  liberty, 
and  detailed  him  for  an  immediate  inquiry.  The  facts 
were  set  forth  on  Army  Form  122 :  "  On  the  night  of 
the  10th  inst.  a  barrel  of  rum,  delivered  at  Brigade 
Dump  No.  35,  was  stolen  or  mislaid.  It  was  last  seen  in 
trench  77.  For  investigation  and  report  to  D.A.Q.M.G. 
50th  Div."  That  barrel  of  rum  will  never  be  seen  again, 
though  it  was  destined  to  roll  through  reams  of  vari- 
ously numbered  army  forms  during  many  a  week. 

But  it  did  not  disturb  Martin's  slumbers.  A  brigadier 
general  happened  to  hear  his  name  given  to  an  orderly. 

"Who's  that?"  he  inquired  sharply.  "Grant,  did 
you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  brigade  major. 

"  Don't  be  such  a  Heaven-condemned  idiot !  "  said  the 
general,  or,  rather,  he  used  words  to  that  effect. 
"  Grant  was  all  through  that  push.  Find  some  other 
fellow." 

Brigade  majors  are  necessarily  inhuman.  It  is  noth- 
ing to  them  what  a  man  may  have  done — they  think 
only  of  the  next  job.  They  are  steeled  alike  to  pity  and 
reproach.  This  one  was  no  exception  among  the  tribe. 
He  merely  thumbed  a  list  and  said  to  the  orderly : 

"  Give  that  chit  to  Mr.  Fortescue." 

So  a  subaltern  began  the  chase.  He  smelt  the  rum 
through  a  whole  company  of  Gordons,  but  the  barrel 
lies  hid  a  fathom  deep  in  the  mud  of  Flanders. 

That  same  afternoon  Martin  woke  up,  refreshed  in 
mind  and  body.  He  secured  a  hot  bath,  "  dolled  up  "  in 
clean  clothes,  and  strolled  out  to  buy  some  socks  from 
"  Madame,"  the  famous  Frenchwoman  who  has  kept  her 


Nearing  the  End  325 

shop  open  in  Armentieres  throughout  three  years  of 
shell  fire. 

A  Yorkshire  battalion  was  "  standing  at  ease  "  in  the 
street  while  their  officers  and  color  sergeants  engaged  in 
a  wrangle  about  billets.  The  regiment  had  taken  part 
in  the  "  push  "  and  bore  the  outward  and  visible  signs 
of  that  inward  grace  which  had  carried  them  beyond  the 
third  line  German  trench.  A  lance  corporal  was  playing 
"  Tipperary  "  on  a  mouth-organ. 

Someone  shouted :  "  Give  us  '  Home  Fires,'  Jim  " — 
and  "  Jim  "  ran  a  preliminary  flourish  before  Martin 
recognized  the  musician. 

"  Why,  if  it  isn't  Jim  Bates ! "  he  cried,  advancing 
with  outstretched  hand. 

The  lance  corporal  drew  himself  up  and  saluted.  His 
brown  skin  reddened  as  he  shook  hands,  for  it  is  not 
every  day  that  a  staff  captain  greets  one  of  the  rank 
and  file  in  such  democratic  fashion. 

"  I'm  main  glad  te  see  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  read  of 
your  promotion  in  t'  Messenger,  an'  we  boys  of  t'  owd 
spot  were  real  pleased.  We  were,  an'  all." 

"  You're  keeping  fit,  I  see,"  and  Martin's  eye  fell  to 
a  pickelhaube  tied  to  the  sling  of  Bates's  rifle. 

"  Pretty  well,  sir,"  grinned  Bates.  "  I  nearly  had  a 
relapse  yesterday  when  that  mine  went  up.  Did  ye 
hear  of  it?" 

"  If  you  mean  the  one  they  touched  off  at  L'Epinette 
Farm,  I  saw  it,"  said  Martin.  "  I  was  at  the  cross- 
roads at  the  moment." 

"  Well,  fancy  that,  sir !  I  couldn't  ha'  bin  twenty 
yards  from  you." 

"  Queer  things  happen  in  war.     Do  you  remember 


326  The  Revellers 

Mrs.  Saumarez's  German  chauffeur,  a  man  named  Fritz 
Bauer?" 

"  Quite  well,  sir." 

"  We  caught  him  in  '  No  Man's  Land '  three  nights 
ago.  He  is  a  major  now." 

Jim  was  so  astonished  that  his  mouth  opened,  just  as 
it  would  have  done  ten  years  earlier. 

"By  gum!"  he  cried.  "That  takes  it!  An'  it's 
hardly  a  month  since  I  saw  Miss  Angele  in  Amiens." 

Martin's  pulse  quickened.  The  mouth-organ  in 
Bates's  hand  brought  him  back  at  a  bound  to  the  night 
when  he  had  forbidden  Jim  to  play  for  Angele's  dancing. 
And  with  that  memory  came  another  thought.  Mrs. 
Saumarez  in  Paris — her  daughter  in  Amiens — why  this 
devotion  to  such  nerve  centers  of  the  war? 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  said.  "You  would  hardly 
recognize  her.  She  is  ten  years  older — a  woman,  not 
a  child." 

Bates  laughed.     He  dropped  his  voice. 

"  She  was  always  a  bit  owd-fashioned,  sir.  I'm  not 
mistakken.  It  kem  about  this  way.  It  was  her,  right 
enough.  Our  colonel's  shover  fell  sick,  so  I  took  on 
the  car  for  a  week.  One  day  I  was  waitin'  outside  the 
Hotel  dew  Nord  at  Amiens  when  a  French  Red  Cross 
auto  drove  up,  an'  out  stepped  Miss  Angele.  I  twigged 
her  at  once.  I'd  know  them  eyes  of  hers  anywheres. 
She  hopped  into  the  hotel,  walkin'  like  a  ballet-dancer. 
Hooiver,  I  goes  up  to  her  shover  an'  sez :  *  Pardonnay 
moy,  but  ain't  that  Mees  Angele  Saumarez  ? '  He 
talked  a  lot — these  Frenchies  always  do — but  I  med 
out  he  didn't  understand.  So  I  parlay-vooed  some  more, 
and  soon  I  got  the  hang  of  things.  She's  married  now, 


Nearing  the  End  327 


an'  I  have  her  new  name  an'  address  in  my  kit-l 
But  I  remember  'em,  all  right.     I  can't  pronounce  'em, 
but  I  can  spell  'em." 

And  Lance  Corporal  Bates  spelled :  "  La  Comtesse 
Barthelemi  de  Saint-Ivoy,  2  bis,  Impasse  Fautet,  Rue 
Blanche,  Paris." 

"  It  looks  funny,"  went  on  Jim  anxiously,  "  but  it's 
just  as  her  shover  wrote  it." 

Martin  affected  to  treat  this  information  lightly. 

"  I'm  exceedingly  glad  I  came  across  you,"  he  said. 
"  How  would  you  like  to  be  a  sergeant,  Jim?  " 

Bates  grinned  widely. 

"  It's  a  lot  more  work,  but  it  does  mean  better  grub, 
sir,"  he  confided. 

"  Very  well.  Don't  mention  it  to  anyone,  and  I'll 
see  what  can  be  done.  It  shouldn't  be  difficult,  since 
you've  earned  the  first  stripe  already." 

Martin  found  his  brigadier  at  the  mess.  A  few 
minutes'  conversation  with  the  great  man  led  him  to  a 
greater  in  the  person  of  the  divisional  general.  Yet  a 
few  more  minutes  of  earnest  talk,  and  he  was  in  a  car, 
bound  for  General  Grant's  headquarters,  which  he 
reached  late  that  night.  It  was  long  after  midnight 
when  the  two  retired,  and  the  son's  face  was  almost  as 
worn  and  care-lined  as  the  father's  ere  the  discussion 
ended. 

Few  proble.ms  have  been  so  baffling  and  none  more 
dangerous  to  the  Allied  armies  in  France  than  the  Ger- 
man spy  system.  It  was  so  perfect  before  the  war, 
every  possible  combination  of  circumstances  had  been 
foreseen  and  provided  against  so  fully,  that  the  most 
thorough  hunting  out  and  ruthless  punishment  of  enemy 


328  The  Revellers 

agents  has  failed  to  crush  the  organization.  The  snake 
has  been  scotched,  but  not  killed.  Its  venom  is  still 
potent.  Every  officer  on  the  staff  and  many  senior  regi- 
mental officers  have  been  astounded  time  and  again  by 
the  completeness  and  up-to-date  nature  of  the  informa- 
tion possessed  by  the  Germans.  Surprise  attacks 
planned  with  the  utmost  secrecy  have  found  enemy 
trenches  held  by  packed  reserves  and  swarming  with 
additional  machine-guns.  Newly  established  ammuni- 
tion depots,  carefully  screened,  have  been  bombed  next 
day  by  aeroplanes  and  subjected  to  high-angle  fire. 
Troop  movements  by  rail  over  long  distances  have  be- 
come known,  and  their  effect  discounted.  Flanders,  in 
particular,  is  a  plague-spot  of  espionage  which  has  cost 
Britain  an  untold  sacrifice  of  life  and  an  almost  immeas- 
urable waste  of  effort. 

Small  wonder,  then,  that  Martin's  forehead  should 
be  seamed  with  foreboding.  If  his  suspicions,  which 
his  father  shared,  were  justified,  the  French  Intelli- 
gence Department  would  quickly  determine  the  truth, 
and  no  power  on  earth  could  save  Angele  and  her  mother 
from  a  firing  party.  France  knows  her  peril  and  stamps 
it  out  unflinchingly.  Of  late,  too,  the  British  authorities 
adopt  the  same  rigorous  measures.  The  spy,  man  or 
woman,  is  shown  no  mercy. 

And  now  the  whirligig  of  events  had  placed  in  Mar- 
tin's hands  the  question  of  life  or  death  for  Mrs.  Sau- 
marez  and  Angele.  It  was  a  loathsome  burden.  He 
rebelled  against  it.  During  the  long  run  to  Paris  his 
very  soul  writhed  at  the  thought  that  fate  was  making 
him  their  executioner.  He  tried  to  steel  his  resolution 
by  dwelling  on  the  mischief  they  might  have  caused  by 


Nearing  the  End  329 

thinking  rather  of  the  gallant  comrades  laid  forever  in 
the  soil  of  France  because  of  their  murderous  duplicity 
than  of  the  woman  who  was  once  his  friend,  of  the  girl 
whose  kisses  Wd  once  thrilled  him  to  the  core.  Worst 
of  all,  both  General  Grant  and  he  himself  felt  some 
measure  of  responsibility  for  their  failure  to  institute 
a  searching  inquiry  as  to  Mrs.  Saumarez's  whereabouts 
when  war  broke  out. 

But  he  was  distraught  and  miserable.  He  had  a 
notion — a  well-founded  one,  as  it  transpired — that  an 
approving  general  had  recommended  him  for  the  Mili- 
tary Cross;  but  from  all  appearance  he  might  have 
expected  a  letter  from  the  War  Office  announcing  his 
dismissal  from  the  service. 

At  last,  after  a  struggle  which  left  him  so  broken 
that  at  a  cordon  near  Paris  he  was  detained  several 
minutes  while  a  sous-officier  who  did  not  like  his  looks 
communicated  with  a  superior  potentate,  he  made  up 
his  mind.  Whate'er  befell,  he  would  give  Angele  and 
her  mother  one  chance.  If  they  decided  to  take  it,  well 
and  good.  If  not,  they  must  face  the  cold-eyed  inquisi- 
tion of  the  Quai  d'Orsay. 

Luckily,  as  matters  turned  out,  he  elected  to  call  on 
Mrs.  Saumarez  first.  For  one  thing,  her  house  in  the 
Rue  Henri  was  not  far  from  a  hotel  on  the  Champs 
Elysees  where  he  was  known  to  the  management;  for 
another,  he  wished  to  run  no  risk  of  being  outwitted  by 
Angele.  If  she  and  her  mother  were  guilty  of  the 
ineffable  infamy  of  betraying  both  the  country  of  their 
nationality  and  that  which  sheltered  them  they  must 
be  trapped  so  effectually  as  to  leave  no  room  for 
doubt. 


330  The  Revellers 

He  was  also  fortunate  in  the  fact  that  his  soldier 
chauffeur,  when  given  the  choice,  decided  to  wait  and 
drive  him  to  the  Rue  Henri.  The  man  was  candid  as  to 
his  own  plans  for  the  evening. 

"  When  I  put  the  car  up  I'll  have  a  hot  bath  and  go 
to  bed,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I've  not  had  five  hours'  sleep 
straight  on  end  during  the  past  three  weeks,  an'  I 
know  wot'll  happen  if  I  start  hittin'  it  up  around  these 
bullyvards.  Me  for  the  feathers  at  nine  o'clock!  So, 
if  you  don't  mind,  sir " 

Martin  knew  what  the  man  meant.  He  wanted  to  be 
kept  busy.  One  hour  of  enforced  liberty  implied  the 
risk  of  meeting  some  hilarious  comrades.  Even  in 
Paris,  strict  as  the  police  regulations  may  be,  Britons 
from  the  front  are  able  to  sit  up  late,  and  the  parties 
are  seldom  "  dry." 

So  officer  and  man  removed  some  of  the  marks  of  a 
long  journey,  ate  a  good  meal,  and  about  eight  o'clock 
arrived  at  Mrs.  Saumarez's  house.  Life  might  be  con- 
vivial enough  inside,  but  the  place  looked  deserted, 
almost  forbidding,  externally. 

Indeed,  Martin  hesitated  before  pressing  an  electric 
bell  and  consulted  a  notebook  to  verify  the  street  and 
number  given  him  by  the  subaltern  on  the  night  von 
Struben  was  captured.  But  he  had  not  erred.  His 
memory  never  failed.  There  could  be  no  doubt  but  that 
his  special  gift  in  this  direction  had  been  responsible 
for  a  rapid  promotion,  since  military  training,  on  the 
mental  side,  depends  largely  on  a  letter-perfect  accuracy 
of  recollection. 

When  he  rang,  however,  the  door  opened  at  once. 
A  bareheaded  man  in  civilian  attire,  but  looking  most 


Nearing  the  End  331 

unlike  a  domestic,  held  aside  a  pair  of  heavy  curtains 
which  shut  out  the  least  ray  of  light  from  the  hall. 

"  Entrez,  monsieur,"  he  said  in  reply  to  Martin,  after 
a  sharp  glance  at  the  car  and  its  driver. 

Martin  heard  a  latch  click  behind  him.  He  passed 
on,  to  find  himself  before  a  sergeant  of  police  seated  at 
a  table.  Three  policemen  stood  near. 

*'  Your  name  and  rank,  monsieur  ?  "  said  this  offi- 
cial. 

Martin,  though  surprised,  almost  startled,  by  these 
preliminaries,  answered  promptly.  The  sergeant  nodded 
to  one  of  his  aides. 

"  Take  this  gentleman  upstairs,"  he  said. 

"  Is  there  any  mistake?  "  inquired  Martin.  "  I  have 
come  here  to  visit  Mrs.  Saumarez." 

"  No  mistake,"  said  the  sergeant.  "  Follow  that  man, 
monsieur." 

Assured  now  that  some  dramatic  and  wholly  unex- 
pected development  had  taken  place,  Martin  tried  to 
gather  his  wits  as  he  mounted  to  the  first  floor.  There, 
in  a  shuttered  drawing-room,  he  confronted  a  shrewd- 
looking  man  in  mufti,  to  whom  his  guide  handed  a 
written  slip  sent  by  the  sergeant.  Evidently,  this  was 
an  official  of  some  importance. 

"Shall  I  speak  English,  Captain  Grant?"  he  said, 
thrusting  aside  a  pile  of  documents  and  clearing  a  space 
on  the  table  at  which  he  was  busy. 

"  Well,"  said  Martin,  smiling,  "  I  imagine  that  your 
English  is  better  than  my  French." 

He  sat  on  a  chair  indicated  by  the  Frenchman.  He 
put  no  questions.  He  guessed  he  was  in  the  presence 
of  a  tragedy. 


332  The  Revellers 

"Is  Mrs.  Saumarez  a  friend  of  yours?"  began  the 
stranger. 

"  Yes,  in  a  sense." 

"  Have  you  seen  her  recently  ?  " 

"  Not  for  ten  years." 

Obviously,  this  answer  was  disconcerting.  It  was 
evident,  too,  that  Martin's  name  was  not  on  a  typed  list 
which  the  other  man  had  scanned  with  a  quick  eye. 
Martin  determined  to  clear  up  an  involved  situation. 

"  I  take  it  that  you  are  connected  with  the  police 
department  ?  "  he  said.  "  Well,  I  have  come  from  the 
British  front  at  Armentieres  to  inquire  into  the  uses  to 
which  this  house  has  been  put.  A  number  of  British 
officers  have  been  entertained  here.  Our  people  want  to 
know  why." 

He  left  it  at  that  for  the  time  being,  but  the  French- 
man's manner  became  perceptibly  more  friendly. 

"  May  I  examine  your  papers  ?  "  he  said. 

Martin  handed  over  the  bundle  of  "  permis  de  voy- 
age," which  everyone  without  exception  must  possess  in 
order  to  move  about  the  roads  of  western  France  in 
wartime. 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  official,  his  air  changing  now  to  one 
of  marked  relief,  "  this  helps  matters  greatly.  My 
name  is  Duchesne,  Captain  Grant — Gustave  Duchesne. 
I  belong  to  the  Bureau  de  1'Interieur.  So  you  people 
also  have  had  your  suspicions  ?  There  can  be  no  doubt 
about  it — the  Baroness  von  Edelstein  was  a  spy  of  the 
worst  kind.  The  mischief  that  woman  did  was  incal- 
culable. Of  course,  it  was  hopeless  to  look  for  any  real 
preventive  work  in  England  before  the  war ;  but  we  were 
caught  napping  here.  You  see,  the  widow  of  a  British 


Nearing  the  End  333 

officer,  a  lady  who  had  the  best  of  credentials,  and  whose 
means  were  ample,  hardly  came  under  review.  She  kept 
open  house,  and  had  lived  in  Paris  so  long  that  her 
German  origin  was  completely  forgotten.  In  fact,  the 
merest  accident  brought  about  her  downfall." 

One  of  the  policemen  came  in  with  a  written  memo- 
randum, which  M.  Duchesne  read. 

"  Your  chauffeur  does  not  give  information  will- 
ingly," smiled  the  latter.  "  The  sergeant  had  to 
threaten  him  with  arrest  before  he  would  describe  your 
journey  to-day." 

It  was  clear  that  the  authorities  were  taking  nothing 
for  granted  where  Mrs.  Saumarez  and  her  visitors  were 
concerned.  Martin  felt  that  he  had  stumbled  to  the  lip 
of  an  abyss.  At  any  rate,  events  were  out  of  his  hands 
now,  and "  for  that  dispensation  he  was  profoundly 
thankful. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  what  I  know  of  Mrs. 
Saumarez,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  wish  to  do  the  unfortu- 
nate woman  an  injustice,  and  my  facts  are  so 
nebulous " 

"  One  moment,  Captain  Grant,"  interposed  the 
Frenchman.  "  You  may  feel  less  constraint  if  you  hear 
that  the  Baroness  died  this  morning." 

"  Good  Heavens !  "  was  Martin's  involuntary  cry. 
"  Was  she  executed?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  other.  "  She  forestalled  justice  by  a 
couple  of  hours.  The  cause  of  death  was  heart  failure. 
She  was — intemperate.  Her  daughter  was  with  her  at 
the  end." 

"  Madame  Barthelemi  de  Saint-Ivoy ! " 

"  You  know  her,  then?  " 


334  The  Revellers 

"  I  met  her  in  a  Yorkshire  village  at  the  same  time  as 
her  mother.  The  other  day,  by  chance,  I  ascertained 
her  name  and  address  from  one  of  our  village  lads  who 
recognized  her  in  Amiens  about  a  month  ago." 

"  Well,  you  were  about  to  say " 

Martin  had  to  put  forth  a  physical  effort  to  regain 
self-control.  He  plunged  at  once  into  the  story  of  those 
early  years.  There  was  little  to  tell  with  regard  to 
Mrs.  Saumarez  and  Angele.  "  Fritz  Bauer  "  was  the 
chief  personage,  and  he  was  now  well  on  his  way  to  a 
prison  camp  in  England. 

Monsieur  Duchesne  was  amused  by  the  map  episode 
in  its  latest  phase. 

"  And  you  were  so  blind  that  you  took  no  action  ?  " 
he  commented  dryly. 

"  No.  We  saw,  but  were  invincibly  confident.  My 
father  sent  the  map  to  the  Intelligence  Department, 
with  which  he  was  connected  until  1912,  when  he  was 
given  a  command  in  the  North.  He  and  I  believe  now 
that  someone  in  Whitehall  overlooked  the  connection 
between  Mrs.  Saumarez  and  an  admitted  spy.  She  had 
left  England,  and  there  was  so  much  to  do  when  war 
broke  out." 

"  Ah !  If  only  those  people  in  London  had  writ- 
ten us!" 

"  Is  the  affair  really  so  bad?  " 

"  Bad !  This  wretched  creature  showed  an  ingenuity 
that  was  devilish.  She  deceived  her  own  daughter. 
That  is  perfectly  clear.  The  girl  married  a  French 
officer  after  the  Battle  of  the  Marne,  and,  as  we  have 
every  reason  to  believe,  thought  she  had  persuaded  her 
mother  to  break  off  relations  with  her  German  friends. 


Nearing  the  End  335 

We  know  now  that  the  baroness,  left  to  her  own  devices, 
adopted  a  method  of  conveying  information  to  the 
Boches  which  almost  defied  detection.  Owing  to  her 
knowledge  of  the  British  army  she  was  able  to  chat 
with  your  men  on  a  plane  of  intimacy  which  no  ordinary 
woman  could  command.  She  found  out  where  certain 
brigades  were  stationed  and  what  regiments  composed 
them.  She  heard  to  what  extent  battalions  were  deci- 
mated. She  knew  what  types  of  guns  were  in  use  and 
what  improvements  were  coming  along  in  caliber  and 
range.  She  was  told  when  men  were  suddenly  recalled 
from  leave,  and  where  they  were  going.  Need  I  say 
what  deductions  the  German  Staff  could  make  from  such 
facts?" 

"  But  how  on  earth  could  she  convey  the  information 
in  time  to  be  of  value?  " 

"  Quite  easily.  There  is  one  weak  spot  on  our  fron- 
tier— south  of  the  German  line.  She  wrote  to  an  agent 
in  Pontarlier,  and  this  man  transmitted  her  notes  across 
the  Swiss  frontier.  The  rest  was  simple.  She  was 
caught  by  fate,  not  by  us.  Years  ago  she  employed  a 
woman  from  Tinchebrai  as  a  nurse '* 

"  Fran9oise !  "  broke  in  Martin. 

"  Exactly — Fran9oise  Dupont.  Well,  Madame  Du- 
pont  died  in  1913.  But  she  had  spoken  of  her  former 
mistress  to  a  nephew,  and  this  man,  a  cripplej  is  now  a 
Paris  postman.  He  is  a  sharp-witted  peasant,  and,  as 
he  grew  in  experience,  was  promoted  gradually  to  more 
important  districts.  Just  a  week  ago  he  took  on  this 
very  street,  and  when  he  saw  the  name  recalled  her 
aunt's  statements  about  Mrs.  Saumarez.  He  informed 
the  Surete  at  once.  Even  then  she  gave  us  some  trouble. 


336  The  Revellers 

Her  letters  were  printed,  not  written,  and  she  could  post 
them  in  out-of-the-way  places.  However,  we  trapped 
her  within  forty-eight  hours.  Have  you  a  battery  of 
four  9.2's  hidden  in  a  wood  three  hundred  meters  north- 
west of  Pont  Ballot?" 

Martin  was  so  flabbergasted  that  he  stammered. 

"  That — is  the  sort  of  thing — we  don't  discuss — any- 
where," he  said. 

"  Naturally.  It  happens  to  be  also  the  sort  of  thing 
which  Mrs.  Saumarez  drew  out  of  some  too-talkative 
lieutenant  of  artillery.  Luckily,  the  fact  has  not 
crossed  the  border.  We  have  the  lady's  notepaper  and 
her  secret  signs,  so  are  taking  the  liberty  to  supply  the 
Boches  with  intelligence  more  useful  to  us." 

"  Then  you  haven't  grabbed  the  Pontarlier  man  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  We  give  him  ten  days.  He  has  six  left. 
When  his  time  is  up,  the  Germans  will  have  discovered 
that  the  wire  has  been  tapped." 

Martin  forced  the  next  question. 

"What  of  Madame  d'e  Saint-Ivoy?" 

"  Her  case  is  under  consideration.  She  is  working 
for  the  Croix  Rouge.  That  is  why  she  was  in  Amiens. 
Her  husband  has  been  recalled  from  Verdun.  He,  by 
the  way,  is  devoted  to  her,  and  she  professes  to  hate  all 
Germans.  Thus  far  her  record  is  clean." 

Martin  was  glad  to  get  out  into  the  night  air,  though 
he  had  a  strange  notion  that  the  quietude  of  the  dark- 
ened Paris  streets  was  unreal — that  the  only  reality  lay 
yonder  where  the  shells  crashed  and  men  burrowed  like 
moles  in  the  earth.  His  chauffeur  saluted. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "  Those 
blighters  wanted  to  run  me  in." 


Nearing  the  End  337 

"  No.  It's  all  right.  The  police  are  doing  good 
work.  Take  me  to  the  hotel.  I'll  follow  your  example 
and  go  to  bed." 

Martin's  voice  was  weary.  He  was  grateful  to  Provi- 
dence that  he  had  been  spared  the  ordeal  which  faced 
him  when  he  entered  the  city.  But  the  strain  was 
heavier  than  he  counted  on,  and  he  craved  rest,  even 
from  tumultuous  memories.  Before  retiring,  however, 
he  wrote  to  Elsie — guardedly,  of  course — but  in  suffi- 
cient detail  that  she  should  understand. 

Next  morning,  making  an  early  start,  he  guided  the 
car  up  the  Rue  Blanche,  as  the  north  road  could  be 
reached  by  a  slight  detour.  He  saw  the  Impasse  Fautet, 
and  glanced  at  the  drawn  blinds  of  Numero  2  bis.  In 
one  of  those  rooms,  he  supposed,  Angele  was  lying.  He 
had  resolved  not  to  seek  her  out.  When  the  war  was 
over,  and  he  and  his  wife  visited  Paris,  they  could  in- 
quire for  her.  Was  she  wholly  innocent  ?  He  hoped  so. 
Somehow,  he  could  not  picture  her  as  a  spy.  She  was 
a  disturbing  influence,  but  her  nature  was  not  mean. 
At  any  rate,  her  mother's  death  would  scare  her  effec- 
tually. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  clear,  and  not  too  cold.  His 
spirits  rose  as  the  car  sped  along  a  good  road,  after 
the  suburban  traffic  was  left  behind.  The  day's  news 
was  cheering.  Verdun  was  safe,  the  Armentieres 
"  push  "  was  an  admitted  gain,  and  the  United  States 
had  reached  the  breaking  point  with  Germany.  Thank 
God,  all  would  yet  be  well,  and  humanity  would  arise, 
blood-stained  but  triumphant,  from  the  rack  of  torment 
on  which  it  had  been  stretched  by  Teuton  oppression ! 

"  Hit  her  up !  "  he  said  when  the  car  had  passed 


338  The  Revellers 

through  Creil,  and  the  next  cordon  was  twenty  miles 
ahead.  The  chauffeur  stepped  on  the  gas,  and  the 
pleasant  panorama  of  France  flew  by  like  a  land 
glimpsed  in  dreams. 

Every  day  in  far-off  Elmsdale  Elsie  would  walk  to 
the  White  House,  or  John  and  Martha  would  visit  the 
vicarage.  If  there  was  no  letter,  some  crumb  of  com- 
fort could  be  drawn  from  its  absence.  Each  morning, 
in  both  households,  the  first  haunted  glance  was  at 
the  casualty  lists  in  the  newspapers.  But  none  ever 
spoke  of  that,  and  Elsie  knew  what  she  never  told  the 
old  couple — that  the  thing  really  to  be  dreaded  was  a 
long  white  envelope  from  the  War  Office,  with  "  O.H. 
M.S."  stamped  across  it,  for  the  relatives  of  fallen 
officers  are  warned  before  the  last  sad  item  is 
printed. 

Elsie  lived  at  the  vicarage.  The  Elms  was  to 
roomy  for  herself  and  her  baby  boy,  another  Martin 
Bolland — such  were  the  names  given  him  at  the  chris- 
tening font.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  she  and  the  vicar, 
accompanied  by  a  nurse  wheeling  a  perambulator,  came 
to  the  White  House  with  Martin's  letter.  And,  heinous 
as  were  Mrs.  Saumarez's  faults,  unforgivable  though 
her  crime,  they  grieved  for  her,  since  her  memory  in 
the  village  had  been,  for  the  most  part,  one  of  a  gracious 
and  dignified  woman. 

Martha  wiped  her  spectacles  after  reading  the  letter. 
The  word  "  hotel "  had  a  comforting  sound. 

"  It  must  ha'  bin  nice  for  t'  lad  te  find  hisself  in  a 
decent  bed  for  a  night,"  she  said. 

Then  Elsie's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 


Nearing  the  End  339 

"  I  only  wish  I  had  known  he  was  there,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"Why,  honey?" 

"  Because,  God  help  me,  on  one  night,  at  least,  I  could 
have  fallen  asleep  with  the  consciousness  that  he  was 
safe!" 

She  averted  her  face,  and  her  slight,  graceful  body 
shook  with  an  uncontrollable  emotion.  The  vicar  was 
so  taken  aback  by  this  unlooked-for  distress  on  Elsie's 
part  that  his  lips  quivered  and  he  dared  not  speak. 
But  John  Bo  Hand's  huge  hand  rested  lightly  on  the 
young  wife's  shoulder. 

"  Dinnat  fret,  lass,"  he  said.  "  I  feel  it  i'  me  bones 
that  Martin  will  come  back  tiv  us.  England  needs  such 
men,  the  whole  wo'ld  needs  'em,  an'  the  Lord,  in  His 
goodness,  will  see  to  it  that  they're  spared.  Sometimes, 
when  things  are  blackest,  I  liken  me-sen  unto  Job;  for 
Job  was  a  farmer  an'  bred  stock,  an'  he  was  afflicted 
more  than  most.  An'  then  I  remember  that  the  Lord 
blessed  the  latter  end  of  Job,  who  died  old  and  full  of 
days;  yet  I  shall  die  a  broken  man  if  Martin  is  taken. 
O  Lord,  my  God,  in  Thee  do  I  put  my  trust !  " 


THE   END 


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